A Pineapple Proposal
by Animorphgirl
Summary: Joe decides to propose to Stephanie with her favorite dessert, but will her mother be able to teach him how to make it? Humor/Romance. CUPCAKE. Final chapter is up!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Stephanie Plum and Joseph Morelli are property of Janet Evanovich, as are the remainder of the characters from the "Stephanie Plum" series. They are being used without permission, without profit. Please do not sue me—I am a poor librarian, still living at home with my parents.

A HUGE thank you to Julie for all of her help beta reading and encouragement with this fic. I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate all of the time and insight you put into this.

If someone asked me how I planned to propose to Stephanie Plum six months ago, I probably would have told them I'd go the traditional route. It wasn't because I was all that traditional, but I just didn't think that being creative would work for me. The first time I proposed, it hadn't even been an actual proposal. My mother and grandmother had just stood outside my house, judging me and Steph for sleeping together, and then one of them—I forget who—had demanded to know if I was going to marry Steph. I'd said yes because it was true that, at some distant point, I figured that we'd go from being boyfriend and girlfriend to being engaged. Then, maybe after a year or two of waiting and our families handling the details, we'd walk down the aisle and end up as husband and wife.

I'd thought that Stephanie and I were thinking along the same lines when I'd agreed to marry her in front of my mother and grandmother. I assumed that she'd be happy with whatever kind of proposal I threw her way afterwards. Even if I didn't have an actual ring to match the proposal statement, details like this hadn't seemed to matter. It was all spur of the moment, forced on us by interfering relatives.

Our unspoken agreement was that just because we were engaged didn't mean a wedding would have to follow anytime soon. We were certainly committed to each other, and there would be a wedding at some point, but there was no need to hurry. Steph could still have kids if we waited a couple of years, and if something happened and she got pregnant beforehand, we could get married then. Or wait. The point was, neither of us saw much of a rush to set a date. To be honest, I think what caused the series of events leading to our temporary breakup was the fact that, several weeks after we'd gotten sort of engaged, I still hadn't been able to figure out what kind of ring would best suit my new fiancé. To this day, I'm not sure if it bothered Stephanie as much as it bothered the older females in our families.

Anyway, my point was that since the first proposal had not gone too well—to put it mildly—I wanted the second proposal, my _real_ proposal, to be heartfelt and meaningful. I wanted it to be a special moment between myself and Stephanie, not something that could be ruined if I had an elaborate plan and something threw things off, like the fireworks going off at the wrong moment.

Also, I wasn't sure if Steph still wanted to get married. We'd been dating and breaking up for so long that it seemed like something as long term as marriage wasn't meant to be. I could see us in fifty years, everything going great with us living together and having hot sex, only to be interrupted by an argument over peanut butter. Or maybe it would be Vinnie's grandson bursting in, declaring there was an FTA that needed to be captured. I'd argue that Stephanie was too old to be doing this, and didn't she just have a hip replacement, and she'd yell at me for being too old fashioned and it was _only_ a drunken wife abuser and she was old enough to be his mother. I could see myself yelling that I'd wanted kids but she'd always been too busy with her job, and she'd shoot back that it had been _me_ who had been too busy, and it was only the bullet in my leg that had eventually forced me to retire.

The sad thing was that none of this seemed very far fetched. I'd spent ample amounts of time with Stephanie's family, and it felt like the older you got, the more crazy you became. Stephanie's mother may appear normal enough—aside from the drinking and ironing when things got too crazy—but Steph had told me that her grandmother seemed the relatively sane when her husband was around? Everyone always said that Stephanie took after her grandmother, so was it _that_ unreasonable to think of Stephanie as an eighty year old woman, still involved in bounty hunting?

I'd long ago dismissed the idea that Stephanie's life would calm down if she quit her job and married me. Okay, so maybe I didn't have much experience in the "what would happen if Stephanie and Joe were husband and wife" department, but Stephanie _had_ quit her job once and chaos continued to follow her. Each job she got left her worse off than the last, until she decided to do office work for Ranger. At some point, she'd decided to give bounty hunting another go, and I was so relieved that she wouldn't be under Ranger's eye for most of the day that I was very encouraging. That wasn't to say that Steph couldn't have a normal life if we made a drastic change like moving across the country, but this was unrealistic because our families were in Trenton.

Anyway, I'd been toying with the idea of proposing again to Stephanie for awhile, especially after her mother set her up on those dates with the male chef turned murderer. Okay, so being a chef wasn't his _real_ job—I think he was unemployed—but it was a hobby turned obsession. That is, it was his obsession until he realized he had a knack for murdering people, but at least he was no longer in the running as a possible replacement for myself. I knew that if Stephanie's parents were setting out to replace me, I'd better make my intentions clear. Sure, Steph was rebellious and would never do anything just because her parents wanted it, but I had to make it clear that I wanted to "buy the cow", so to speak.

Not that I'd ever phrase it that way in front of Steph.

The thing was, even though I'd thought we were an unofficial married couple in the eyes of the Burg, it appeared that people's opinions changed over time when a marriage didn't happen.

My idea of proposing by making Steph's favorite dessert came at one of those weekly family dinners. Her mother had made the cake, and it had turned out especially well. Her father had made some comment that if the two of us ever actually tied the knot, her mother could save them a whole lot of money by making pineapple upside down cake as the wedding cake. Back when her sister was engaged to Albert Kloughn, the family had gone to numerous bakeries in search of the perfect cake. The cake they picked _was_ great, but her sister and Kloughn ended up getting cold feet and exchanging the traditional wedding for a trip to Disney World. The family still had the cake, but from what Stephanie told me, most of it disappeared in a massive food fight between Stephanie, her mother, and her grandmother.

Once everyone got over the initial surprise at Steph's father making a comment at the dinner table that did not involve "pass the pot roast" or a muttered insult about Grandma Mazur, everyone laughed and commented that this wouldn't be a bad idea. I noticed that Stephanie's eyes had lit up at the suggestion.

"You'd have to buy a lot of pineapples," Grandma Mazur had commented. "Maybe hold up a few grocery stores. That'd be a pip of a plan!"

_This_ elicited the traditional gruff response from Steph's father, and then the conversation moved onto other topics. I stopped paying attention midway through the discussion, started by Steph's grandmother, about an alleged documentary regarding "ancient aliens" and how they might want to substitute parts of their body for ours in order to infiltrate our planet. That part wasn't so bad, but when Grandma Mazur started talking about their reproductive organs and how they might try to capture a few humans and steal parts from us, I knew if I didn't start thinking about something else soon, I might end up losing my dinner as well as my piece of cake.

I ended up staring at the pineapple cake and thinking about Stephanie's father's comment. I'd known for ages that this was her favorite dessert, and while my experiences in cooking were more in the area of meals rather than desserts, I thought it might be fun to learn how to make this and surprise her with it. I knew that half of the reason she went to dinners with her family was because of the dessert, and there was always the chance that the dessert could be her favorite cake. She'd told me once that Plums would be willing to do just about anything for a good dessert. I found myself wondering if this included saying "yes" to a marriage proposal. I found myself wanting to bring that nice part of her family life back with us, so she could enjoy the food without having to deal with the craziness.

Then, her dad's thought kept going through my head. A pineapple upside down wedding cake would probably be perfect for our eventual wedding. Even if it turned out to be in twenty years. This led me to thinking about ways I could ask her to marry me, despite my resolve to stay traditional. I knew, for instance, that I wanted to have a ring present when I proposed.

As I finished the cake and waited for the discussion about aliens to conclude, it occurred to me that the best way to propose to Steph would involve food. Since I was already going to try and figure out how to make the cake, why not incorporate the proposal into that? Okay, so I couldn't write out "WILL YOU MARRY ME?" in whipped cream, and besides, I couldn't write legibly in icing to save my life. If I omitted the whipped cream for icing, the cake would look weird, and it would probably end up looking like "WOOL UYO MORRYE EEI?" But I _could_ put the ring box on top of one of the piles of whipped cream, and then kneel down, ring in my hand, to give my proposal as soon as she noticed the box on top.

The idea seemed so perfect, it took a lot of effort to keep from grinning. Hell, it took a lot of effort not to interrupt the discussion on aliens and pretend everything was normal.

Another piece of cake and twenty minutes later, I began sending Stephanie looks asking if we could leave yet. She gave me a slight nod, and ten minutes later, we were packed up and sent on our way with leftovers.

As Mrs. Plum gave me the customary hug goodbye, I considered pulling her aside to ask for the recipe that night, but decided against it. I didn't want Steph to have any idea what I was up to, and I was sure her mother would give something away if I told her then and there.

I'd have to stop the Plum home the following morning to carry out my plan. Steph liked to sleep in on Sundays, so it would be the best time to talk to her mother without her finding out.

I called the Plum home a little after eight, knowing that the females always attended Sunday Mass and figuring I wouldn't be waking them. Stephanie had spent the night and was still out like a log when I'd gotten up around six. I probably could have called her mother at seven and scored an invitation to breakfast, but my Burg mentality warned me that seven was too early and would seem rude. Even with Steph, I rarely called before eight unless I thought she might be in danger. That day, I wasn't too concerned about waking her. We'd been up late the night before, and even when we went to bed at a reasonable hour, she was always groggy with sleep in the morning until she'd had two cups of coffee.

Mrs. Plum answered the phone, sounding distracted, and I felt the familiar wave of nervousness that Stephanie usually felt when she was talking with my Grandma Bella. Not because Mrs. Plum scared me—occasional antics aside, she was sweet enough—but I instantly felt like I was intruding when she clearly had other things on her mind. I wondered if my plan would bring forth an ironing and/or drinking binge later that day.

We made small talk for a couple of minutes, and then I asked if I could come over later that day regarding a project. I almost called it "something private", but my brain stopped me at the last minute, warning me that if I called it that, then the entire Burg would think me and Steph were engaged before noon that day. Calling what I wanted to do a "project" might sound odd, but it was actually pretty accurate. I mean, if you thought about it, wasn't that what learning how to make a cake was?

The truth was, I'd been too busy thinking over the idea of incorporating the proposal into a cake to worry much about what to call it. I'd decided earlier that day that I'd make dinner for Stephanie on the night I was going to propose, but I'd do everything casually so she wouldn't get suspicious. I didn't cook meals for Steph too often, but our first meal together _had_ been one that I'd cooked for us. Generally, we ordered out or heated up leftovers or used a microwave for those precooked meals you found in stores. If Steph was having a really bad day, I'd make sure to have comfort food available in the form of peanut butter, bread, and those precooked macaroni and cheese meals she loved. Sometimes, I'd make us dessert from a mix, like brownies or blueberry muffins.

There were a ton of things I loved about Steph, but one of the things I think I loved about her was that she didn't need to go out to fancy restaurants or have lavish meals together in order to be happy. If I came home with pizza and/or meatball subs from Pinos, she was happy. She might get annoyed if I threw out an almost empty peanut butter jar, but otherwise, she was easygoing when it came to food. Once, she told me that with the exception of dessert, she considered most food to be more or less the same.

This was part of the reason I wanted to make the proposal special by including her favorite dessert. Sure, I could ask her mom to send me home with one of her pineapple upside down cakes, but I thought it would mean more to Steph if I made it.

Of course, this meant I had to figure out how to make it at least half as good as her mother, or else it really would, if not defeat the purpose, then at least cheapen the whole thing. I mean, when I thought about it, I hated the idea of her telling our future kids that I'd proposed with a half cooked cake that neither of us had been able to eat. What kind of a message would that send? Knowing us, it would probably end up in an argument.

Anyway, Mrs. Plum and I agreed to meet for lunch at noon. I hoped that I could get over there without Stephanie finding out. There was no chance that she'd still be asleep, and I wasn't going to resort to outright lying or faking a call from dispatch to prevent her from finding out. Especially since I'd used the latter to get us, and occasionally myself, out of embarrassing family meals on more than one occasion. On the other hand, Steph wasn't the jealous type, always asking where I was. Still, years of being a cop had taught me that it was better to be prepared for something that didn't happen than being unprepared for something that _did_ happen. I decided that I'd go grocery shopping afterwards so I'd have a valid reason for being out for awhile. It occurred to me that if Mrs. Plum wanted to meet with me again after giving me the recipe, I'd need another covert way to get over to her house without Steph in order to avoid suspicion.

Stephanie complained about Burg gossip, but I hadn't considered how nosy neighbors could interfere with our relationship until now.

Fifteen minutes later, I'd poured myself a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal when I heard Steph emerge from upstairs. She was wearing one of her favorite flannel nightgowns, which was light blue, almost ankle length, and had yellow flowers all over it. She hadn't bothered to brush her hair, so it was mussed from sleep and—not that I'd ever tell her this—gave her the vague appearance of a mad scientist. Curls peaked out from under the top layer of mussed hair, and several strands fell in her, still sleepy, face. She poured herself a cup of coffee and retrieved a bowl and spoon from the overhead cabinets before heading my way.

Once she'd put everything down, I reached over to give her a kiss on the forehead. Steph gave me one of her warm smiles and, encouraged, I pulled her into a hug. She squeezed back, so I lifted her into my lap and began to run my fingers along her hair.

Steph kissed my neck and we cuddled for a few minutes. I was debating the likelihood of repeating some of our activities from the previous night when she abruptly got off my lap and took her seat next to me. I must have looked pretty discouraged, because Steph just smiled and rolled her eyes at me.

"I need my coffee before I can think of sex, Joe," she remarked, rather dryly.

I reached out and brushed a loose piece of hair behind her ear. "I can make you feel plenty awake _without_ coffee, Cupcake."

She let out a snort. "That's _you_, Morelli. I become a blob of mush after sex."

"A very sexy blob of mush," I informed her.

I received another eye roll in response.

"Wait until tonight," she promised. "If you're good."

That earned a snort from me. "If _I'm_ good?"

She just grinned and ate her cereal.

"Any plans for today?" I asked as I flipped through the paper.

"Two skips."

The way she said it made me think they weren't the regular run of the mill FTAs.

The truth was, even though I'd been pretty impressed with Steph for being able to take down the Rug, I still worried about her whenever she was out chasing criminals. Okay, so maybe the shoplifters and people wanted for credit card fraud weren't so bad, but it still gave me a queasy feeling whenever Steph was after someone wanted for a violent crime. I knew that she could handle herself, but she was by no means an expert, and I hated that Vinnie took her capture of the Rug to mean that she could handle some of the people who had once gone straight to Ranger.

I wasn't sure whose idea it had been to send her on some of the higher risk chases, but I also recognized that even the most simple capture _had_ given Steph a lot of trouble in the past. Her job was supposed to be straight forward, with Ranger handling the more violent crimes, and her stopping the people who posed less of a risk. The key word here was "less". Someone wanted for murder would definitely try to shoot you a few times in the head, but a man wanted for domestic abuse was also likely to throw a few punches your way.

It hadn't helped much that Steph's partner was Lula, who was hands down the most incompetent bounty hunter in the east coast. I'd never tell Lula this to her face, but practically the only thing in her favor was her above average weight, and that only came in handy if she managed to sit on an FTA.

Not exactly a regular occurrence, but it had happened from time to time.

I'd long since stopped telling Steph to get a new job, but I was still concerned whenever she went to work. Fortunately, the bonds office had busy periods and slow periods, so I could usually rest easy—or easier—on the slow periods.

Additionally, after Steph had captured the Rug, I'd been able to get my Maalox intake down to less than half of what I previously considered to be my "normal" amount.

"High bonds?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound overly worried.

"Pretty high," she told me. "But not as much as I got for the Rug."

Steph had told me the exact figure she'd gotten for the Rug, and it had been impressive. She'd splurged a little on some new outfits, two _very_ sexy pairs of shoes, and a couple new pieces of furniture for her apartment. One of the items had been a new couch, which we'd agreed had been a necessity regardless of her funds because her enemy Joyce had stayed at her apartment for several days. She'd slept on the couch and, as if that wasn't bad enough, Steph had caught her sleeping naked on the couch at least once. I'm hardly a prude when it comes to sleeping naked, but it goes beyond gross to sleep naked on another person's couch. No wonder Steph couldn't stand Joyce. After I'd heard the story, I'd made a mental note not to go anywhere near the couch until it could be fumigated. Steph's decision to purchase a new one—and it was infinitely more comfortable—had been a smart one.

Beyond those items, it sounded like most of the money had gone into paying her bills and feeding her bank account. We didn't talk _too_ much about money so I wasn't sure of the exact amount that remained, but I knew that Steph would probably be okay for a few months even if she didn't catch any more FTAs. But Steph either had a strong work ethic, or Vinnie was relentless, because right after she'd gotten the check, she'd gone back to work. I knew that her financial situation was improving with the new high risk FTAs, but so was the danger. I wanted to be supportive, but I felt better when I knew she was safe beside me at night.

I gave her another kiss—this time on the mouth—and held her close. "Be careful."

She nodded. "I will."

At least her high risk captures would keep her busy that day. She'd probably be gone well before twelve, and I wouldn't need to make the excuse of shopping in order to get out of the house.

"Give me a call if you're going to be later than seven, okay?" I asked her.

Another nod, and I took our empty dishes to the sink. "I'll take care of these," I told Steph. In an effort to lighten the mood, I added, "Looking forward to tonight. Am I going to see you in one of those new outfits?"

This brought a smile. "Maybe. If you get lucky."

I rolled my eyes at her and gave her another peck on the forehead.

I headed to the Plum residence at ten to twelve and arrived promptly at twelve. Mrs. Plum opened the door with a smile and a confused look and ushered me into the kitchen. Mr. Plum was sitting in the living room, watching TV and munching on a jelly donut. A plate of donuts sat in front of him. I remembered that Steph had once told me that it was a Plum tradition for the females to pick up jelly donuts—only jelly ones—after going to Sunday mass. Her father participated in eating the jelly donuts, but bypassed the mass part of the tradition.

"Sit down, Joseph," she told me. "Are you hungry? Would you like a donut?"

I saw another plateful of donuts on the kitchen table. Grandma Mazur was seated at one of the seats, snacking on a donut and reading a magazine.

"Sure," I said, even though I'd already eaten.

"Something to drink?" Mrs. Plum pressed, retrieving a plate from one of the countertop cabinets.

"Anything's fine," I replied.

Mrs. Plum began taking various items out of cabinets and drawers, and five minutes later, she handed me a plate with two jelly donuts, a roast beef sandwich with a side of pickles and potato chips, and a glass of soda with ice cubes. Then, she sat down across from me.

Grandma Mazur looked up from her magazine. "What brings you here, Joe?" she asked.

I took a bite of the sandwich to give myself time to think. Mrs. Plum smiled and waited for me to finish chewing.

"I'd like to propose to Stephanie," I began, stopping as I heard the expected exclamations. Mrs. Plum surprised me by pulling me into a hug that was so forceful I half expected my ribs to crack.

"I'm so happy, Joseph!" she gushed. "You and Stephanie have been together for _years_, but I didn't think it would ever happen. You know how she is about marriage! Frank! Frank, you have to come over here! This is wonderful—I'll have to call your mother and we can start planning everything…"

To my horror, Mrs. Plum began walking towards the phone, and it was all I could do not to shout.

"Wait!" I raised my hands just as she picked up the receiver. "Steph doesn't know yet!"

Mrs. Plum put the phone down, the confused expression resuming. "Are you here to ask our permission, Joseph? Well, of course you have it!"

"It's not just that…"

This was harder than I'd expected. I wanted to come right out and say it, but with the two Plum women breathing down my neck, I felt like I was about to be accused of a crime.

"You _can_ have kids, can't you?" Grandma Mazur asked. "Is that the problem?"

I reddened. "Yes, of course I can father kids!" I retorted, working hard at not shouting.

"Well, I know that Steph might not want them now, but I'm sure that she'll change her mind in a year or so," Mrs. Plum told me. "I wouldn't worry about that. That _shouldn't_ keep you from proposing."

I tried to give them a reassuring smile while my mind was going a million miles per hour in an attempt to keep up with female logic. "I'm not worried about that, Mrs. Plum. Steph will love being a mom, even if our family won't be exactly traditional. We'll figure it out so that everyone will be happy."

"She's knocked up already?"

This was from Grandma Mazur.

This time, I really did yell. Or tried to. My voice came out a little higher than I'd intended and, while I couldn't see my face, I was sure that I was as red as the jelly donut on my plate. "N-no!" I cleared my throat. "Steph's not pregnant, yet, Mrs. Plum. You don't have to worry about that at _all._ We've been really careful."

Mrs. Plum raised her eyebrows, and I berated myself for having confessed that Stephanie and I had been having premarital sex since…well, pretty much since before we'd first became a couple the first time. I mean, sure, they _knew_, but it wasn't something that we were going to talk about at the dinner table.

Or the lunch table, for that matter.

I cleared my throat again. "This is what I'm trying to explain." I closed my eyes and prayed to God to let me get through this meeting without bodily harm, or too much humiliation. Somehow, the latter seemed like too great a miracle to ask from someone who hadn't been to mass in over a year. "I want the proposal to be really special, really meaningful for Steph."

Grandma Mazur nodded wisely. "You should do it in bed," she told me. "Right after sex." She turned to Mrs. Plum. "Or should it be right before sex?"

Mrs. Plum took a glance at the cabinets, where I knew she kept her liquor stash, and I could tell she was wondering if she'd need a few shots to get through this meeting.

I was wondering the same thing.

"Steph's favorite dessert is pineapple upside down cake," I began again. "I thought I would propose to her with that."

All right, so it wasn't the most well thought out statement in the world, but at least I'd gotten the idea out there.

Grandma Mazur's eyes widened. "That's a pip of an idea!" she told me. "When are you going to do it? Helen could have the cake ready tonight if you want to stop by again…"

Mrs. Plum was nodding. "It would be no trouble at all, and what a perfect way to propose to my daughter!"

She began sniffling, and I realized that she was holding back tears.

"Well," I began again.

"Out with it, Hottie!" Grandma Mazur ordered. "Did you want a design in the whipped cream? Maybe a penis?"

Mrs. Plum looked aghast. "I'm not going to draw a penis on my daughter's proposal cake!"

"Fine, then I will," Grandma Mazur retorted. "It's not _that_ hard, Helen. Whipped cream isn't as easy to work with as icing, but I could still do a hell of a job."

I exhaled deeply. If I didn't watch it, I would end up going home carrying an X rated cake…

"That's really nice of you to offer, Mrs. Plum, but I was hoping that you could lend me your recipe so I could make the cake."

Mrs. Plum drew herself up. "I'm afraid that's impossible."

"B-but…" I tried to formulate the words to ask why, but they wouldn't seem to come out. I was crushed. Heartbroken, even. I cleared my throat again. Damn, I was doing a lot of that today. "But why?" I begged. "I won't give it to anyone. Hell, I can even destroy it after I'm done!"

"No." Mrs. Plum glared at me. "You men, you all think alike. Just hand over the recipe, and you can recreate a cake that I've been perfecting for over _twenty years_. Do you have any idea why that cake is Stephanie's favorite dessert? It's not just _any_ pineapple upside down cake. If you ordered it from a restaurant or a store, she could tell the difference. My mother gave me her recipe, and I've used that for the first ten years of marriage, but then I started making small changes, and I've created the—the best damn pineapple upside down cake in the Burg!"

Grandma Mazur nodded sagely. "It's true."

I lowered my head. "I'm sorry."

What Mrs. Plum said next surprised me.

"If you're going to make it for Stephanie, you need to learn how to make it _exactly_ the way I do. It's not going to be easy," she cautioned. "It's going to take weeks to make it just right. Do you have any baking experience?" I shook my head and she sighed. "It could take _months!_" she practically wailed. Then, her face turned rigid. "All right, Joseph, if you're serious about this, I'll teach you to make the cake. But it will require a lot of baking lessons, and hours of practice on your own." I must have sputtered at this, because Mrs. Plum gave me a truly cold stare. "Joseph, you cannot learn how to make this cake without hours of practice. I'll give you as much help as I can, and we'll have to make it a crash course, but you _must_ be willing to do a tremendous amount of work on your own."

Figuring that Mrs. Plum was exaggerating, I figured it would be best to nod and pretend that she knew what she was talking about.

"I promise," I told her. "I'll do whatever is necessary."

At least I'd have plenty of stories to entertain Stephanie with after the proposal. I perked up a little at that. Okay, so I'd spend a few afternoons with Mrs. Plum—and Grandma Mazur—and then I'd be all set. Sure, it wouldn't be a fun way to spend my time, but it was ultimately for Stephanie, and wasn't that what really mattered?

Besides, once I knew how to make the cake, I could make it for her more than once. It would be the perfect make up gift for fights.

I just hoped that Grandma Mazur's presence in the kitchen wouldn't hinder my progress. The woman was hilarious, but I'd never be able to remember all of the steps if she was always there, interrupting and making helpful suggestions about our love life.

"I'd like that," I told Mrs. Plum. "I'd really appreciate that."

Mrs. Plum nodded gravely. "All right. I suppose you'll have to learn how to make it sooner or later, since I won't always be around to make it for Stephanie."

She and Grandma Mazur made the sign of the cross. A moment too late, I added my own sign of the cross.

"Maybe he'll be able to teach it to Stephanie," Grandma Mazur suggested.

Mrs. Plum sniffed. "I hope so." She turned to me. "As I said, it will take a lot of work. Are you _very_ sure that you want to do this?"

I nodded again. Oddly enough, being able to create this dessert felt sort of like a rite of passage. Like I'd only be good enough for Steph—at least in her family's eyes—if I could make her favorite dessert.

"We should start immediately," Mrs. Plum told me, eying my mostly uneaten plate of food. "Finish eating, and I'll get the ingredients."

It was going to be a _long_ afternoon.

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	2. Chapter 2

As soon as I was finished with my food, Mrs. Plum handed me a piece of paper.

"Today, I want to start by explaining the list of ingredients that go into my cake, and then have you watch me make the cake. You will _only_ watch, Joseph. You have to see how it's done before you can start."

That sounded reasonable enough to me, so I nodded and looked over the list.

3 eggs (Eggland—extra large)

1 cup of flour

1 cup of white sugar (1.25 tops)

1 teaspoon of baking powder (NOT baking soda)

4 tablespoons of pineapple juice, unsweetened (squeeze from unused pineapple)

5 tablespoons of butter (unsalted—do NOT use low or reduced fat butter)

1 cup of brown sugar (1.25 tops)

5 2x2 inch pineapple slices for each slice of cake

1 1/3 cups of almonds

5 maraschino cherries (must be the same size)

Whipped cream with ½ teaspoon of vanilla (to be added after baking)

2 teaspoons of cinnamon (exactly!)

½ teaspoon of vanilla (exactly!)

"The last two ingredients weren't in my mother's recipe," Mrs. Plum confided.

"Yeah, she spent six months just trying to figure out how much cinnamon was enough and whether or not you needed to use vanilla," Grandma Mazur told me. "I suggested that she use chocolate instead, but she said it wouldn't work with the texture."

I gave the necessary sincere nod. "It looks…complicated."

Actually, it didn't. I mean, I recognized all of the ingredients, and while it might take a little while to get the hang of the measurements, it didn't seem like brain surgery or rocket science. The only thing I'd wondered about when reading the list was how to measure a half a teaspoon of something. Wasn't a teaspoon as small as something got?

I realized that I'd have to buy measuring cups and spoons. Well, maybe I could keep them hidden. Or maybe I wouldn't need to. It wasn't like Steph went rummaging through my drawers of pots and pans. In fact, that was probably the safest place to put the ring before I proposed. It currently resided in my desk at work.

"It's even trickier than it looks, because I don't put everything in all together at once," Mrs. Plum explained. "You probably looked at the eggs and thought they all go in at the same time, didn't you?"

"I'd assumed so," I admitted.

Mrs. Plum shook her head. "You put one egg in at the beginning, one egg white in after the first half cup of brown sugar, one egg yolk in after the vanilla, and the final egg white—the white _only_—after the first teaspoon of cinnamon."

I couldn't help it—I stared at her blankly. "Come again?"

She laughed. "Exactly. That's why it's not as simple as just following the instructions." She paused. "Well, technically, you do follow the instructions, but you will have to do it several times before you make anything edible."

I wondered if I'd still want to eat any of the cake by that point.

"It's like a dance," Grandma Mazur supplied. "When your partner does the one hop and then you have to step back, and then you spin her around and then she lifts one foot. If you don't get the steps in the right order at the right time, she'll kick you in the privates."

Okay, _that_ made a little more sense. I nodded.

"That's why you'll have to do it at least five times before you will have anything edible. The first couple of times, you'll forget an ingredient, or use too much of one thing and too little of another. After awhile, you'll be doing this in your sleep."

At my grin, Grandma Mazur piped up, "Oh, she's not kidding. The first few times she got the new recipe right, Frank caught her in the kitchen in the middle of the night, making the cake. He told my husband that it looked downright scary since her eyes were closed, but her hands knew exactly what they were doing. The second time he caught her, it was in the oven before Frank woke up. Didn't he wake up because of the smell?"

Mrs. Plum smiled widely. "He ate four pieces then and there. It was my best one. I hadn't used the vanilla before then, but I guess my body knew what I was doing even though I was asleep."

Good thing sleepwalking didn't run in my family.

"And I'd never sleepwalked before then!" Mrs. Plum added. "Frank was so worried that he stuck a book in front of the door for awhile, so that I'd bang my foot and he'd hear me shout."

"So you've stopped now?" I inquired.

"Mostly. It was only when I'd work on revising an older recipe. I stopped doing that last year. Thought my desserts didn't need any more improving."

"They don't," I reassured her, partly because it was true and partly because I didn't want to worry that I'd started Mrs. Plum's sleepwalking again. "They're amazing."

She smiled at me. "Thank you, Joseph dear."

"Did you get all of your recipes from Grandma Mazur?"

Mrs. Plum frowned. "Five dessert ones. The rest came from cookbooks. The other four I got from my mother didn't need any work done. Let me see…there was the banana crème pie—if you're a fast learner with the cake, I might show you how to make that. It's one of Stephanie's favorites. There's also my mother's rice pudding. I added a hint of lemon to it, but it was nearly perfect the way it was. Our spice cake recipe runs in the family, so I couldn't interfere with that. The last one was poppy seed cake, but I hardly ever make it because Frank claims it's too healthy. Even if I use twice as much butter!"

I laughed politely at the last one. I'd never even _heard_ of the poppy seed cake, and certainly couldn't remember eating it. Maybe that was a good thing, since those seeds tend to get stuck in my teeth for days on end.

"The recipe I had to change the most was the apple pie. It was wonderful before, Mom," she reassured Grandma Mazur, "but I had a dream in which there were orange slices in the pie as well as apple slices. At one point, I mixed in pineapples, but it didn't turn out so well because of the lumps. I also added more cinnamon to the pie to give it that extra flavor."

_That_ dessert was one I remembered easily. The first time Stephanie had brought it back to my house, she'd only let me eat the tiniest sliver of a piece. When I grabbed a second helping without asking her, she practically kicked me out of my own house. Now, we pretty much split the leftover pie fifty-fifty, but she always brings home more pie than any other dessert. Well, any dessert except for the pineapple upside down cake.

Grandma Mazur glanced at the clock. "So, are you two going to start the cooking lesson, or just chit chat all afternoon? Because I'm getting hungry for some of that pineapple cake right about now."

Mrs. Plum glared at her mother. "I'm giving him instructions."

"Yeah, but you're not doing any cooking. How's he going to figure out how to make the cake if he doesn't see you make it?"

Mrs. Plum muttered something about her mother having a point, and told me where to stand while she made the cake so I could get the best visual angle without being in the way. A part of me wondered if I should be taking notes.

Seeing Mrs. Plum at work really forced home the fact that I would not be assembling the cake anytime soon. It _was_ like a dance, with the mixing bowl and ingredients as her partner. It was effortless for Mrs. Plum, but I'd have broken my leg trying to imitate her. Well, all right, maybe just stubbed a toe.

While the cake baked, we had exactly forty minutes before the cake had to come out of the oven. She was very particular about it being forty minutes to the _second_. She'd brought out a timer at one point, and kept an eye on it the entire time the cake was baking. Mrs. Plum went over the details I'd have to keep an eye on so I could determine if the cake was worth keeping even before slicing it. After all, I wanted to present a full cake to Steph, didn't I? At least at that point, I knew exactly what she meant. Stuff about the thickness of the eggs and the importance of mixing the vanilla into the mix for exactly thirty seconds might have gone over my head, but I knew enough to understand that a cake which hadn't been cut into looked a lot better than one that had.

"Of course, there's a trick that you can use to be extra sure," Mrs. Plum told me. "I'll demonstrate it to you after we take it out."

By "we", she meant "her", of course. I wasn't allowed to get within an arm's reach of the cake—which was more than fine with me, at least at this point.

When it was time to remove the cake from the oven, she put it on the stove and set the timer for exactly three minutes.

"At three minutes, exactly, I have to turn the cake upside down and take it out of the pan," she explained. "This way, the pineapple pieces will be on the top, instead of on the bottom."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Plum, but why don't you just put the pineapple pieces on the top?" I asked, figuring she had a good enough reason.

"They'd dry out," she replied. "I'd tried that in the past, and it was a near disaster. Besides, there's a reason it's called a pineapple _upside down_ cake!"

Grandma Mazur snorted. "What my daughter means is, the cake still tasted good, but the pineapple pieces were all dried up and shriveled. You need the pineapple to be soaked by the other ingredients so it gets all buttery and full of caramel. When Helen put the pieces on top and baked them, it was like chewing on flavored plastic."

"Exactly." Mrs. Plum seemed to shudder at the memory.

"The cake was still good, but it was more of a pineapple juice cake than a pineapple upside down cake," Grandma Mazur added. "You can't have a pineapple upside down cake without pineapples."

As soon as the timer went off, Mrs. Plum grabbed the cake contained and flipped it onto a plate. She held her breath as the last pineapple slice seemed to stick to the tray for an extra five seconds, then let it out as the pineapple dropped from the tray and onto the cake.

"What happens if it stays in the tray when I do it?" I wondered.

"You take a fork and remove it from the tray and onto the cake. Carefully! But it looks better, more symmetrical, if it comes out on its own."

"Not that it matters," Grandma Mazur cut in. "The whole thing gets covered in whipped cream. Heck, you can add the dang pineapples later, for all the difference it makes."

Mrs. Plum glared at her mother. "It makes a world of difference in the taste. Didn't you just say that part of the appeal of putting the pineapples in the batter was so it tasted better? It would just taste like pineapple cake if you put the pineapples on top later!"

Grandma made a "hmph" noise in recognition.

"Now that the hard part is done, all we need to do is add the whipped cream," Mrs. Plum told me. She opened the refrigerator and took out a bowl of cream. I expected her to take a spoon and smooth some of it on top, but then she disappeared and came back with a mixer. "I'm going to spend some time teaching you how to whip the cream when you've finished learning everything else, so I want you to watch me do it today." She retrieved the vanilla from the spice cabinet and measured out a tiny amount using one of the spoons.

I half expected Mrs. Plum to end up with half of the cream splattered on her by the time she'd finished whipping it, but there wasn't even one drop on her hands or clothing. I suspected that I wouldn't be so lucky the first few times.

Or ever.

She spread the now whipped cream over the cake and announced that it was complete.

"You said there was a way to tell if it would taste all right without cutting into it?" I asked Mrs. Plum.

She nodded, smiling, obviously pleased that I remembered. "You take a sample from the bottom, like this." She turned the cake on its side—I was amazed to see that none of the whipped cream spilled over when she did this—and poked at an edge with a toothpick. A small piece of cake came out. She did the same thing a second time, and a tiny hole formed. She removed the cake and put it on the side of the plate.

"It's thick, and the color is right," Mrs. Plum told me. Then, she popped it into her mouth and swallowed. "The last test is the taste test. It passed that as well. You probably won't be able to rely on the taste test by the time I've finished with your crash course, so you should rely on the thickness and the color. If it's thick but not sticky, then that's good. If the color looks like what you saw, or a tiny bit darker, then that's what you need. If it's too dark, then the cake is overcooked. If it's too light, it's undercooked. Of course, if it's undercooked, then it will also appear sticky, and you'll know that you did something wrong."

I repeated this to make sure that I understood it. "Thick but not sticky. Light yellow color. There should be crumbs?"

"Perfect." Mrs. Plum opened the drawer and removed three forks. Then, she took another plate from one of the cabinets and cut off a slice. "That's for you." She did the same thing again. "And that's for you, mom."

"Looks good," Grandma Mazur approved. She took a whiff of the cake. "Smells good, too."

Mrs. Plum cut another slice, this time for herself, and sat down at the table. I followed her and chewed on the cake. I'd eaten pineapple upside down cake before at the Plum home more times than I could count, and each time it had been tasty and I'd gone for seconds. _This_ time, eating it straight out of the oven, was another experience entirely. It was pretty damn good. The cake was so warm I half expected steam to rise from it. At the same time, it wasn't hot enough to burn your tongue, just warm enough that I wanted to swallow the pieces without taking the time to chew them. The whipped cream tasted the same as usual, but I guessed that there wasn't much change that could occur in whipped cream after it settling for an hour or so. I wondered how often Stephanie had eaten slices of their cake _straight_ from the oven. I could see why Steph would do just about anything for a slice of pineapple upside down cake, but I was beginning to wonder—yet again—how I'd be able to make it for her. I'd love to serve it to her still warm, but that would take extra careful timing. Maybe I'd be able to do that for our anniversary. She'd love that.

Of course, I had to be careful that the other cops in the precinct didn't find out about this. I could just imagine the nicknames they'd come up with, the well meaning—yet still totally embarrassing—teasing that would occur. If they ever found out, I'd have to make it clear that it had been a one shot deal, that the baking lessons were because I loved Steph, and not because I had any aspirations of becoming a professional pastry chef.

I knew that I was committed to making the cake. But I'd do it at Mrs. Plum's house on the day I proposed, and have her do the toothpick test to make sure it had turned out all right.

I formulated this plan to Mrs. Plum after finishing off my second piece, and she voiced her approval.

"I'd hate to see your budding skills wasted on such an important occasion," she told me. "I'd be happy to test it for you. It won't be for awhile, though."

"How long do you think it will take?" I queried.

She considered. "If you came over on Sundays and one more day during the week, and did all of the homework I assigned in the meantime, I think I could have you ready in four or five weeks."

"Sundays are fine, but during the week would be trickier," I told her. "I usually work long hours. I could schedule it in to leave early, but I wouldn't be able to make it over here before 7."

"7 is fine," Stephanie's mother reassured me. "We eat dinner at 6. Would Wednesdays work for you? I'd like it to be in the middle of the week so you have time to practice."

I chewed on my lip, having finished with the cake. "Wednesdays would work. Not this Wednesday, but all of the others are okay."

"Then I'll need you to practice twice as much before next Sunday," Mrs. Plum admonished. "Unless you can come over on Thursday?"

I mentally reviewed my schedule in my head. I'd have to go in earlier that day, and maybe stay later on Friday, but I'd make it work.

"Thursday is fine."

"Good." She smiled. "Now that we have that settled, have you given any thought to what you're going to tell Stephanie about this? She'll see that something's off when you come home smelling like dessert."

I hadn't thought that far ahead, but before I could say anything to this extent, Grandma Mazur was talking. "Could we just tell her the truth—or part of it? That you're teaching Joseph some of your dessert recipes."

But Mrs. Plum was shaking her head. "She'd want to know why, and say I was interfering, and guess that you were going to propose. She might even figure out that you wanted to make her favorite dessert, and it would take all of the fun out of it."

Yes, it sure would.

I stared at the empty plate and thought for awhile. Finally, I came up with an alternative.

"I'm pretty handy around the house. I could tell her you're having me help with some household projects, because your husband's back isn't doing great?"

Mrs. Plum thought this idea over. "Mom, do you think that Stephanie would believe that?"

"Probably, as long as her Hottie came home in a dirty shirt. He could tell her that the food smell was some snack you fed him on account of he was missing dinner." Grandma Mazur narrowed her eyes. "'Course, then Steph would start noticing that he always smelled like the pineapple upside down cake…"

"I'll save some dessert from whatever I made, and you can eat some here and bring the rest home to Stephanie," Mrs. Plum amended. "That would cover up most of the pineapple smell."

Grandma Mazur grinned. "Maybe you should do some physical labor, too, so the smells get mixed in. Take your shirt off and all of that."

I tried hard not to turn red. "I wouldn't mind changing your car's oil or something, Mrs. Plum," I told her. It would look consistent enough with my story, and she _was_ doing me a favor by showing me how to make the cake.

"I'll ask Frank if he needs any help working on projects," she promised. "For now, though, you should just save a dirty shirt for the return trip on the days you take baking lessons here." She frowned. "Maybe a few shirts, so that Stephanie doesn't get suspicious."

"She would, too," Grandma Mazur added. "That one's real observant. Goes with being a bounty hunter."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I just nodded and smiled for what felt like the tenth time that afternoon. I checked the clock. It was past 3:30. I'd been there much longer than I had expected.

"I better get going," I told the women. "Steph might be wondering where I am. Um, Mrs. Plum? You said you were going to give me homework?"

"I think you should practice separating eggs," Mrs. Plum replied after a moment's hesitation. "That's all you can do for now. I wouldn't want you to try assembling the recipe yet." Then she paused. "Make sure you have all of the cooking items on hand before you return. A mixer, the sets of spoons, the necessary cups, and so forth. If you need any help figuring out what to buy, give me a call."

"Right." I stood up. "Thanks again. I really appreciate it."

Mrs. Plum gave me another rib cracking hug. "I'm happy to help, Joseph."

Grandma Mazur stood up to give me a hug, and whispered in my ear, "I still say you should skip the cake and just propose after sex. Or propose with the cake, have sex, and then eat the cake."

I knew she was seconds away from pinching my butt, so I retreated from the hug immediately. I gave Mrs. Plum a hug and another round of thanks. Finally, I let out a barely audible sigh and retreated out the front door. Stephanie's car was parked outside my house when I returned.

_Shit._

I hope she'd buy the whole "your dad hurt his back and I'm going to be helping him around the house" story her mom and I had concocted.

A/N: If you enjoyed this chapter, please take a minute to leave a constructive review. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

Over the last few months, after Stephanie and I had gotten closer as one of the unexpected results of her trip to Hawaii, she moved back in with me. She still kept her apartment, but she'd moved most of her stuff into my house. The guest bedroom had been, unofficially, hers for storing extra clothes, blankets, and other stuff that would have made my room cluttered. It wasn't that Steph was materialistic so much as she had things that were necessary for living on her own, but weren't as necessary when she was living with me. I took the fact that most of Stephanie's belongings were in my house as a good thing. It suggested that she was less likely to pack up her things and leave if we had a fight. Not that we'd been having many of those lately. After we'd had the necessary conversations (and some arguments) about Ranger, Hawaii, her work, and what we each wanted out of life, it felt like we'd reached a point where we understood each other's needs and could compromise on the issues that previously led to fights, like who had to buy the bread for toast.

With shopping for food, we decided to keep a list on the refrigerator door of the items that needed to be purchased. If the item could wait a few days, one of us would just write it down. If it could not wait, we'd put a star next to the item and tell the other person. As soon as the list reached fifteen items—stared or not—the person who'd written down the fifteenth item would have to go to the store. Occasionally, one of us would call the other and say, "There are fifteen things to get. I'll pick them up tonight." Sometimes, we went shopping together and ended up buying another ten items that hadn't been on the list.

We _never_ ran out of peanut butter.

Living together meant we saw a lot more of each other, especially at night. Even if I was gone before Steph woke up and wasn't back until after eight or nine, I'd still see her before we went to sleep. This meant we'd been having sex at least once a night ever since Stephanie had moved back in. I can't say that this has hurt our relationship.

I put the rest of the cake in the refrigerator and stopped to check Bob's food bowl, suspecting that even though it had been full that morning, it would be empty by now. Sure enough, there wasn't a single piece of kibble left in the bowl. I gave him more kibble and refilled his water, and he looked at me as though I was the greatest human being in the world.

Stephanie was sitting at the table, reading a magazine and drinking some coffee. She'd put on her usual work uniform of blue jeans, a t-shirt (red today) and a matching flannel shirt over the shirt. Her hair was tied back in its usual ponytail, curls swinging around her shoulders. I gave her a peck on the top of her head and played with one of her curls.

"Sexy," I told her.

She turned around and smiled at me. "You should have seen me earlier," she commented wryly. "The FTA pushed me in a mud swamp."

I sat down next to her. "Mud swamp?"

"Yeah." She shuddered. "Lula made him wish he hadn't, though. By the time we got him into the station, I felt downright clean next to him. Even his _hair_ was caked in mud." She giggled at this. "The cops were pretty impressed with us. You might hear stories about the Mud Monster tomorrow."

I grimaced. "Which one of you was the mud monster?"

Steph laughed. "Me. Lula barely got any mud on her. I took a shower as soon as I got home."

The fact that she called my house home made my heart skip a beat. I waited for a second in case Steph corrected herself, but she didn't. Just smiled at me.

"How much mud got on the FTA?"

She grinned. "There wasn't a mud free part of him when I was finished. You'd have liked to be there," she added, batting her eyes at me.

I chuckled and gave her a long kiss. "We can fix that now."

I detected the familiar grin, and she practically jumped out of her chair. I carried her into our room, and an hour later, we were cuddling in bed. Bob was pawing outside the door, which I'd had the sense to close before beginning our afternoon activities. Didn't want to traumatize the poor dog.

I leaned over and whispered in her ear a few suggestions about a different kind of mud wrestling. Steph rolled over to face me, smiling her unique "after sex" smile.

"Mmm…but we'd have to shower afterwards," she said, running a hand along my hair. "I don't think I'd be up for that." Before I could reply, she added, "Besides, mud would get…everywhere. Sorry, but I think that's going on the list of sexual acts I'm _not_ going to do."

The list was a short one, I had to admit. When we'd first gotten together, she hadn't exactly been a prude, but she'd been pretty traditional. Over time, she'd become more open minded. Later, I found out that she'd done stuff with me she'd refused to consider with Dickie. _That_ put a smile on my face. Not only because it proved how much of a jerk her ex had been, but that she'd grown comfortable enough around me to be willing to try things she'd previously rejected.

But now that she brought it up, I could see that my fantasy had some drawbacks. It was probably a good thing that Steph had pointed this out before we actually tried it.

Steph's hands moved from my hair down to my neck, and I was enjoying every second of it. If I'd been a dog, my tongue probably would have been rolling out of my mouth. She spent at least ten minutes on my neck before moving down to my shoulders. I shut my eyes, thinking that if this continued for much longer, I'd fall asleep. Not that this would be a bad thing. I didn't often get a chance to take a nap, weekend or weekday, and I'd welcome an hour or so of sleep after the couple of hours I'd had at the Plum home.

"You okay?" Steph asked, and I could hear the teasing in her voice. "Did I wear you out?"

"Not you. Your mom."

It slipped out before I could stop myself, and I could feel my cheeks redden.

"You like older women, Morelli?" she queried, giggling.

I rolled my eyes, not that she could see me. Well, might as well tell her now and get it over with.

"I'll be helping your dad perform manual labor on the house and the car for the next few weeks," I explained. "I spoke with your mom earlier on the phone—" Well, this was true enough. "—and she said he pulled his back after you'd left. I think he was trying to fix the sink…"

I felt her hands let go of my back, and I turned over to face her. "Is he okay?" she asked me. "Did he have to go to the hospital?"

"Yes, and no. In that order," I reassured Steph. "But he had some projects he wanted to work on, and your mom wants your dad to take it easy for awhile, so she asked if I'd be able to help him work on them."

"I wish you'd told me," Steph replied, sounding bitter. "Dillon's really good at that kind of thing, and he'd probably do it for next to nothing."

"Well, I'm doing it for extra helpings of your mom's desserts." I gave her a peck on the forehead. "It won't be anything too strenuous, I don't think."

"If it is, just tell her!" Steph had a look in her eyes that reminded me of her mother. "She shouldn't have even asked you. It's not like we're married or anything."

Then, she bit her lip.

"Not yet, anyway," I reassured her. "I think we should make sure we can live together for a few months without having a huge fight."

Stephanie seemed to brighten a little at this, so I settled down on the bed and wrapped my arms around her. She nestled against me, head in my chest.

"Ready for round two, or a nap?"

She yawned, and I could see the outline of a smile on her face.

"Okay, Cupcake," I said, pretending to be disappointed. "Guess that answers that."

Steph rolled over on her side to face me. "Gotta rest up for tonight, remember?"

I held her closer. "You got it, Cupcake."

She breathed in, tickling my neck as she did so. "You smell good. Sort of like…pineapple upside down cake."

"I was over there earlier," I responded.

"Any leftovers?"

I rolled my eyes. "Do you have to ask?"

"Mmm," she sighed. "Great, now I'm hungry."

"I thought you were tired."

"Well, that too." She shifted, contemplating the decision before her. "I guess it will still be there in a few hours."

"Unless Bob gets it," I teased. At her Steph's sudden movement, I added, "Don't worry. It's in the fridge." I felt Steph relax against me, and I brushed an arm against her side. "Sweet dreams."

She responded with a yawn of her own. "You too."

When I woke up, it was after 4PM. Stephanie had disappeared, and I suspected that she was downstairs with the pineapple upside down cake. I put on a shirt and shorts and headed downstairs. There was a large piece of cake missing from the box, but no Stephanie. Hmm.

Bob began barking at me, and his food bowl still had some kibble in it, but I noticed a note attached to his collar.

_Joe,_

_Went shopping with Mary Lou. Going to pick up something for tonight. I refilled Bob's food and water bowl before leaving, but he might have to poop before I get back._

_Will call if I'm back after 7. I'll probably get dinner with Mary Lou, but leftovers from my parents are still in the fridge. Call my cell if you want me to pick you something up instead._

_Love,_

_Stephanie_

_P.S. I fed Rex, too._

I gave Bob a sigh. "You know you're going to gain fifty pounds if you keep that up."

He just wagged his tail at me and barked loudly.

"Need to go out?"

He barked again.

I grabbed his leash from the kitchen and hooked it onto his collar. "All right, I'm coming."

Fortunately, the weather was nice out—not too hot, not too cold. Not overly cloudy, but not so much sun that it hurt to look up at the sky. I grabbed a pair of socks from the laundry basket and located my sneakers, figuring it wouldn't hurt either of us to make this walk a run. By the time we came back, Bob was panting like crazy and whining as though I'd forced him to do a fifteen mile run, even though it had only been three.

I'd been running enough to break into a sweat, so I decided a quick shower wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. I'd completed a second half bathroom a year ago, but that one only contained a sink and a toilet. It would have been too expensive to install a shower or bathtub and, as much as Stephanie disliked the idea of having to share a shower, I knew that she wouldn't want me to go into debt to the tune of ten or fifteen thousand dollars for an extra place to shower.

I'd been a little nervous about the state of the shower after hearing her story regarding Lula and the FTA, but I didn't see any mud on the floor or the walls of the shower. Her shampoo bottle looked kind of low, and I made a mental note to add that to the list when I got out.

Given that it was almost six o'clock by the time I'd dried off, I figured I'd bypass clothes and head straight into a long t-shirt and boxer shorts. Why make extra laundry work for myself, or Steph?

I'd been a little surprised when she'd volunteered to do our laundry once she'd moved back in, under the condition that I took responsibility for cleaning the bathroom and taking out the garbage. She'd mentioned on a few occasions that I shouldn't leave my dirty socks and underwear in our room.

It seemed like a fair trade off.

I debated getting started on Mrs. Plum's homework assignment, but Steph's note had implied that she'd be back before seven, and I didn't want her to catch me trying to separate eggs. She'd know something was up. I checked to see what our egg condition looked like, and was happy to see that we had a full cartoon of unopened eggs. I could practice tomorrow, and if there were any that I couldn't separate, I'd make those into scrambled eggs for our breakfast.

Bob began whining, and I realized that he'd finished all of the food in his bowl. Not wanting him to resort to eating furniture—though he might do that anyway—I refilled his bowl.

"Now, Bob, that's it for tonight," I told him sternly. "Make it last."

Bob just did what I guessed passed for the dog version of a happy dance, and proceeded to eat every bite of his dinner. Figures.

I headed back into the kitchen, reheated the leftovers from the previous night's dinner of pot roast, green beans, and baked potato. They were every bit as good as they'd been the night before.

I was watching the news on TV when Steph returned, a few minutes after seven, holding a large shopping bag and looking pretty happy. She reached down and petted Bob, who began to sniff her shopping bag in case it contained anything remotely edible.

"Down, Bob," she laughed. "You already had dinner."

I got up from the couch and pulled her into a hug.

"Twice," I admitted. "He wouldn't leave me alone. So, did you and Mary Lou fun?"

"Loads, but traffic was horrible coming back." She set the back on the floor and walked over to the couch. "Anything good on?"

I used the remote to turn off the TV. "Not as good as what I have planned for tonight." I eyed the bag. "Can I see?"

She smiled. "Sure, but it's nothing for tonight." She started to take the piece of clothing out of the bag, but I stopped her.

"Put it on for me?"

Steph rolled her eyes. "I'll be back in a minute."

"You can change here," I offered, knowing she wouldn't take me up on it. The shades blocked most of the view from the street, but with the exception of undressing for sex, Steph wasn't huge on taking her clothes off in front of me.

I was pretty sure it had to do with insecurity about her bra size. In the Burg, a C was considered average, and you had to be at least a D to look good. Steph's breast size was definitely a B, maybe a C with the right bra. Personally, I thought they were perfect, but she'd received a lot of negative comments from various obnoxious women in our town, and a few from really nasty men. The comments never brought her to tears or anything like that, but it had to hurt her in the long run. I'd told her they were perfect on various occasions, and I knew that Steph knew I wouldn't lie to her about something like that. Still, it kind of hurt that other people could cause her to feel, if not unattractive, then at least insecure.

As I'd expected, Steph rolled her eyes at me. "I'll be back in a minute."

I remained on the couch while she put on whatever outfit she'd bought, waiting impatiently. I didn't want to turn the TV back on and seem like a jerk. When Steph emerged, she looked gorgeous.

The dress reached a little below her knees and had a really full skirt. It was dark blue with tiny roses all over it. The top of the dress was low cut, but conservative enough that she could wear it to her parents' house—or mine—without comment. The sleeves were short and seemed to contain a lot of fabric, almost giving Steph the appearance of flying. It looked both innocent and stylish, and _very_ sexy. Stephanie had put on earrings, which matched the dress perfectly. Blue flowers with red petals definitely added to the outfit.

"Wow," I managed.

She smiled and twirled in the dress. "You think so?"

"Definitely." I pulled her into my arms so she was sitting on my lap. "You look good enough to eat." I studied Steph again. "I like what it does to your eyes."

Stephanie's eyes were pale blue, but the dark blue of the dress seemed to make them extra dark. The whole effect was pretty striking.

"You're pretty irresistible," I told her, picking her up. "In fact, I don't think I _can_ resist you in that…"

"That's okay," Steph told me. "You don't have to try…"

The next morning, I woke up at 5:05AM to my blaring alarm. Stephanie rolled over onto her stomach.

"Shut that damn thing off," she pleaded, her voice muffled from the pillow. "It's been like that for ages…"

I removed one hand from Steph's waist and turned the sound off without bothering to look at the clock.

"I don't have to get up _right_ away," I told her, coaxingly.

She rolled over on her side. "Forget it."

"Please?"

"Ask me in a few hours," she practically growled.

I nibbled at her ear. "I'll make it worth your while."

Steph reached for my pillow and placed it over her head. "Nothing is worth it at five in the morning."

Okay, so my chances of morning sex with Stephanie were maybe 10% on a good day. It happened, on occasion, but far more often, she flat out refused because she wanted the extra sleep. Steph was never a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, and if she _had_ to get up early, she was more inclined to think about coffee and donuts than sex. Not that coffee and donuts could persuade her to get up with me, have sex, and then go back to bed.

I'd tried it often enough.

I removed the pillow, gave her a kiss on the head, and then returned the pillow to her head.

"Sweet dreams, Cupcake. See you tonight."

She said something that sounded like "Love you, Joe" but it could have been "Go away, now".

Choosing to believe it was the first, I responded with an "I love you, too."

I told myself it was a good thing I hadn't been able to convince Steph to have sex that early. If she got up, she might stay awake long enough to have breakfast with me. Since I didn't have to be at work super early that day, I'd initially set my alarm with the intention of getting started on Mrs. Plum's homework assignment. I wouldn't be able to do that if Steph was in the kitchen with me.

Before attacking the eggs, I logged online and tried to find information about separating eggs. I was glad I did this, because if I hadn't, I probably would have cracked an egg open over the bowl and tried to remove the yolk with a spoon. As it was, it took five tries before I was able to remove the yolk completely from the white. I gave it two more goes, just in case the fifth time had been luck, and got the egg separated completely from the yolk both times. I felt pretty proud of myself as I scrambled them up for breakfast.

One step down, a thousand more to go.

After I'd finished the dishes, I realized that the eggs I'd used might be different from the ones Mrs. Plum had used. I'd have to call her and ask if it made a difference in the separation process. Later that day, though. I wanted to enjoy my small victory while it lasted.

At work, I heard a few comments about the Mud Monster, but they were more admiring than derisive. Probably because the guys at the precinct knew better than to say anything negative about Stephanie to my face _or_ behind my back. Not unless they had a legitimate reason to be worried. In a lot of ways, the men who worked with me took on the same attitude towards Steph as the men at Rangeman did: it was part of their job to let me know if she wasn't safe, and act to keep her that way.

I wondered how Rangeman employees probably felt about their job after they learned that I'd proposed to Steph. Maybe they would think that she'd still end up with Ranger. Certainly, _he'd_ think that. _My_ men might have doubts about us lasting as a long term couple, but at least they saw us together and knew we were legitimate and happy. I knew that Ranger still tracked Stephanie's car, allegedly out of the desire to make sure she was safe, but also for the purpose of knowing where she was at all times. I didn't make a big deal about it, but I would if it continued after we got married. Partly because I didn't want another man tracking down my wife, and also because Steph was tired of having to endure being tracked.

As horrible as it had been to see Stephanie with Ranger in Hawaii, it had opened up the doors of communication for us. After the business with the Rug and the photo cleared up, Steph agreed to take a couple weeks off from work so we could figure out what was going on between us. We had some tough conversations, even fights. We didn't fight as much about her job as we did about Ranger. I wanted Stephanie to cut him off entirely, but Stephanie valued his friendship and didn't want to lose that. She believed that, over time, a friendship between herself and Ranger could work out. Steph told me that she'd felt guilty about how things had gotten between them. I'd known about the flirting, and Hawaii had confirmed that they'd slept together more than once. Hearing everything from Steph hurt, but things between us improved because of our honesty.

I knew that if it came down to a choice between a sexual relationship with Ranger and a lasting relationship with me Stephanie would choose to cut Ranger off. She'd tell him that, while she cared about him and valued their friendship, as well as everything he'd done for her in the past, she had chosen me and didn't want any kind of romance with him. Not only did this mean no more sex between them, but no kissing, flirting, or anything she wouldn't do in front of me. In spite of everything, I still trusted Steph to do the right thing if they stuck to being friends.

Steph appeared in the kitchen about two hours later in pajamas and a bathrobe, just after I'd finished eating and cleaning up all of the eggs. I decided I'd risk being a little late and stay to have a second breakfast with her. There wouldn't be time for morning sex, but there was always later that night…

After we'd finished eating, I kissed Steph goodbye and hurried out the door. I hoped that

I'd see her again in the sexy blue dress on the night I proposed with the cake.

A/N: If you enjoyed this chapter, PLEASE take a moment to leave a constructive review. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

When I returned to the Plum home on Thursday, it was with a very good understanding of how to separate eggs. I'd looked up my question on a search engine the night before, and the general opinion was that there was not a major difference how to separate different types of eggs. Once Mrs. Plum saw that I'd mastered this skill, we could move on to the next stage of the recipe.

I'd also gone shopping earlier that week, and with the help of a customer who had been buying a lot of cake mixes, I'd been able to figure out what I needed to buy in order to make the cake. She'd helped me pick out various measuring cups as well as measuring spoons. She'd told me about the different types of pans I'd need, so I'd bought some of those as well. I even purchased cooking oil in the liquid form as well as the spray on form, but when I looked back on that, it might have been a mistake because I couldn't remember Mrs. Plum actually _using_ cooking oil when she'd made the cake. Maybe she sprayed it on all of her pans beforehand? I would have to ask her about that.

I even bought different types of eggs to practice separating and, sure enough, I had no problems separating the assortments of eggs. Well, all right, the brown eggs took me a few attempts, but in the end I was able to do it without any shell falling in. Besides, I was pretty sure that the recipe for pineapple upside down cake didn't call for brown eggs.

I returned to the house after my shopping trip, hoping to spend some time with Steph. Unfortunately, I found a hastily scribbled note from her.

_Hey Joe,_

_Lula and I are off tracking down Boonz, my FTA. I won't be back until late, so we're going to stop at Cluck in a Bucket for dinner. Call or text me if you want me to pick up anything for you._

_See you tonight._

_Love,_

_Stephanie_

As I read the note, I wondered if Stephanie paid Lula a percentage of what she earned per skip, or Lula assisted for free because she _hated_ filing. Sad as it was to think, Vinnie should just promote Lula to Assistant Bounty Hunter and hire someone else to do the filing. At this point, it sounded like Connie was stuck with the job, and from the way Steph described it, she was none too happy about it. Still, I wasn't going to stick my nose in her job unless it was absolutely necessary, and internal problems regarding distribution of work hardly qualified.

At exactly seven, I rang the doorbell. Five seconds later, Grandma Mazur opened the door and, one armed, pulled me inside. She was holding out long wooden spoon in the other.

"Get in," she hissed at me. "Helen just finished getting ready. Did you do the homework?"

Feeling as though I was taking part in an illegal operation, I nodded bemusedly.

Still holding me by the arm, Grandma Mazur nodded and dragged me into the kitchen.

"Okay, Helen, I got him," she reported. "He didn't have a chance to run."

I forced a laugh. "I wasn't going to run."

"Oh no?" Grandma grinned widely. "Wait until you hear what Helen's got planned for you tonight."

I turned my attention to a smiling Mrs. Plum, who'd just finished putting away the last of the dinner dishes. "What's that?"

"You're going to be performing the first three steps of the recipe, Joseph," she replied. "I've decided that we need to start you off working with small pieces at a time, and you're going to do them over and over until you can do them in your sleep. Once I think you've mastered that, we'll move on."

"It's kind of like playing the piano," Grandma Mazur supplied. "You start out with a few notes, and you keep repeating them until you can do it with your eyes closed. Then, you get a few more notes, which you add onto the ones you can now play in your sleep. Before you know it, you've gotten a song memorized."

Mrs. Plum smiled stiffly. "Except this is much harder."

I took a deep breath and then exhaled. "I have to make it sometime, right?"

"Yes."

I scanned the recipe and Mrs. Plum showed me what part she wanted me to get up to. Tonight, I had to get all of the eggs separated, mix in the pineapples (she'd sliced them prior to my arrival), put in the vanilla at the right point, mash up the butter and mix it in at various intervals, and finally, mix in the flour and the sugar. Once I'd mastered these steps completely, I would know how to perform one third of the recipe.

My first try was a disaster. I ended up getting more ingredients on me and on the floor than in the bowl. What _did_ get in the bowl ended up looking like a lumpy, soggy mess. Now, having never baked before, this might be what cake batter should look like before it went into the oven, but it looked thoroughly unappetizing to me. Also, it smelled a little like Bob after I'd taken him for a walk and it started pouring down rain halfway through.

Grandma Mazur offered to clean up the mess from the floor so I could make a second attempt. This went better, but the batter still smelled like a wet dog. The color had changed from grayish tan to off white, which I took to be an improvement. I didn't think that I'd gotten as much of the ingredients on me, but it was difficult to tell.

I really started to get the hang of things on my third try, and by the time I'd gone through my fourth attempt, I thought I might be able to memorize the whole thing before Steph turned 40. Two tries later, and I was pretty sure I'd gotten everything right, in the right order. Mrs. Plum inspected my work and declared that it was passable for a first night's practice.

"You have to work on your timing, Joseph, but once you have everything memorized, I think you'll do fine. I want you to practice this again at home, at least four more times. You must be able to perform these steps in your sleep before we can continue." She paused and took a minute to stare at me. I probably looked like a human cake monster. "I must admit that you're a fast learner."

"Thanks," I replied, trying not to reveal just how tired I was. I'd have to get up at least an hour earlier the next day because I'd left work early tonight, and I felt as though I'd spent the past two—no, three—hours running a marathon.

Grandma Mazur took a moment to observe my status. "You look like you fell into a giant tub of cake mix and then rolled around in flour. Gives a new meaning to the phrase tarred and feathered. In your case, battered and floured."

Mrs. Plum gave an appreciative chuckle at that. "I'll have to remember that one, Mom."

I gave them polite smiles and attempted not to roll my eyes. "Mind if I use your bathroom to clean up?" Then, I remembered that I'd forgotten to bring a change of clothes. "Oh shit. Never mind—I don't have any spare clothes with me."

Mrs. Plum's smile disappeared as she made a tutting sound, probably because of my swearing.

"You can borrow something from Frank. You'll have to tell Steph that you were attempting to fix the oil in his car and got sprayed." She gave me a quick body scan. "Unfortunately, I think they may be too wide on you, and a good few inches too short, but you can't go home looking like that."

That was the understatement of the year.

"Um, should I leave mine here?" I asked her.

Mrs. Plum nodded briefly before turning back to her sink. Grandma Mazur, looking as though her birthday had come early, turned to me.

"I can take them to the laundry room if you want to take them things off here."

I glanced at Mrs. Plum, who was trying hard not to smile. "That's not necessary. I'll bring them down after I shower."

"Well, if you think it's best," Grandma Mazur relented, sighing. "I just don't want you to mess up the floors."

Right.

"You can wear those as a spare pair when you are finished on Sunday," Mrs. Plum called to me as I left the kitchen.

She didn't add, "In case you forget to bring your own again", but I thought it was implied.

Anyway, I'd have to remember to return Frank's clothes. I felt more than a little weird about wearing Steph's father's clothes, if only for an hour or so, but what was the alternative? It wasn't like I could return home wearing only my underwear. At least I wouldn't need to borrow _that_ from Frank. That gave me the willies.

Fifteen minutes later, I was struggling into a pair of loose but short pants and a loose but too short shirt. At least the shirt was a t-shirt. Pretty much all of my arms came out of the thing, but it _was_ very loose around the stomach. The pants needed a belt (also borrowed from Frank) to stay up. I bid the Plums goodbye, carrying a bag of chocolate cake, and headed towards my car. I was very glad that it was late, because the sight of me walking to my car in broad daylight looking as I did was sure to start the Burg rumor mill. People would still see me and talk, but it would take a day to get around, as opposed to an hour. By then, Steph would have seen me and been amused, but not as surprised as some of her Burg neighbors.

I glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard of my car. It was past 9:30. Not late by usual standards, but I'd have to get up by 4:30 at the latest tomorrow, and I was already exhausted from a long day at work combined with the baking lessons. I had no doubt that it would be worth it in the end, but it sure wouldn't be a lot of fun in the meantime.

Steph was watching TV on the couch with Bob when I arrived. She turned her attention away from the show to give me a hug, and then just gaped at me.

"What the hell happened?" she demanded.

She wasn't angry—I could see a smile playing at her lips—but she was certainly surprised to see me in her dad's clothes.

"Oil spill from your dad's car," I told her. "Your dad lent me these. I showered first," I added.

Steph rolled her eyes. "Everyone's going to be talking about this tomorrow."

I gave her a kiss on the forehead and held her close. "At least the gossip won't be about you. Now's your chance to do something really crazy, Cupcake."

She laughed and kept her arms locked around my shoulders. "I have some other ideas for tonight. But before you change…" She grabbed her cell phone and snapped a picture. "Just in case."

"Can I see it?"

She gave me another eye roll. "I'm that _that_ naïve, Joe." She hit a few buttons on the phone, probably emailing it to herself.

It was worth a shot. Anyway, it might be worth saving when Steph found out the truth. Maybe even keeping for posterity.

I pulled her into another hug and began to play with a loose strand of her hair. "We better lock the bedroom door before you get any ideas about tonight, Cupcake. Don't want to corrupt Bob."

She giggled, put her cell phone away, and we headed upstairs.

My alarm went off at 4:30, but it took me another five minutes to become awake enough to shut it off. I'd have liked nothing better than pull the covers back over me and Steph and sleep for another three or four hours.

Then, _not_ sleep for another hour or two.

Well, that wasn't going to happen today. I'd be working until 9PM at the earliest. I had mountains of paperwork to get through. Still, I wasn't one to mope. I got out of bed, dressed and showered, and then tucked Stephanie into the covers. She stirred but did not wake up, which was probably best for the time being. I couldn't afford to be late. My boss wasn't happy about my temporarily new hours because they made things more complicated for everyone else. I'd have liked to say a few things about that, but I held my tongue. No need to get put on probation or suspension right before I proposed to Steph.

Over the next couple of weeks, I managed to find time to take baking lessons at the Plums, practice baking at home without Steph finding out, not fall asleep at work, and basically perform all of my regular responsibilities to the degree I'd been doing before I decided to propose with home made pineapple upside down cake.

I didn't think that most people found baking to be all that difficult. Certainly, things were made easier by all of those prepackaged mixes. Mrs. Plum abhorred them the way I did with serial killers and rapists. They were akin to the abridged books to the world of readers.

"They're simplistic," she fumed one night after I'd made the mistake of asking about them.

In my defense, I hadn't been suggesting replacing her cake with a cake mix. I'd only mentioned the mixes because I'd been explaining how I'd gotten help with figuring out what measuring instruments were what from a woman who'd planned to purchase several boxes of those mixes.

"If you want a _real_ brownie, you have to cut up a half pound of pure chocolate into tiny slices. You have to use _real_ butter. You have to use the right eggs. You can't just take that chocolate _stuff_ and put in water and bake it for thirty minutes. It isn't done!"

"What she means is, it's not done here," Grandma Mazur clarified. "It's one of the seven deadly sins."

I turned my attention from the floor to Grandma Mazur. "Which one?"

"_All_ of them!" snapped Mrs. Plum.

Grandma Mazur snorted. "You're being dramatic. The one I meant was pride. But I guess you could argue that it leads to gluttony, seeing as how it doesn't taste as good as a homemade dish, and I saw on a TV show that people tend to eat more of something that they don't really like. Then there's anger, on account that you eat so much of something you don't like that you gain weight. Then there's envy, because you know you can't cook as well as someone who makes it from scratch, and more envy since you're gained weight from eating too much of the mixed brownies. You got lust because you're always wanting more brownies."

"The main one is sloth, since you're too lazy to make the brownies from scratch," added Mrs. Plum. "But you get greedy because once you taste the _real_ ones, you won't be able to stop eating them."

Grandma Mazur counted on her fingers. "Guess that's all seven. Heh. Who'd have thought that prepackaged mixes could lead to all seven of the deadly sins?"

"I did!" retorted Mrs. Plum. "The point, Joseph, is that once you start on that road, there's no going back. It's better to learn the right way, from me."

I just nodded and acted as though I understood all of this. I supposed that I did, to an extent. I mean, if you spent years perfecting an already great recipe by figuring out at what point to add certain amounts of each ingredient, I could see how it would make you annoyed if you saw prepackaged versions of a similar item being used by the majority of the population.

"Why don't you open a bakery?" I asked Mrs. Plum. "Or, you could offer to sell some of your dishes at the Tasty Pastry?"

But Mrs. Plum just shook her head. "I cook for my family," she explained simply.

On the final day of my fifth week of cooking lessons, Mrs. Plum declared that my cake was "more than edible" and I was ready to learn how to whip cream. If I thought I'd gotten messy before, it was nothing compared to what happened when I attempted to whip cream. In my defense, Grandma Mazur kept getting in the way. Usually, she just sat at the table, eating a piece of cake leftover from dessert or drinking tea, content to make quips from time to time. That day, she decided that she wanted to take a more direct approach. My cynical side told me it was because my cooking lessons were coming to a close, and although she'd tried three times, she hadn't yet succeeded in pinching my butt. She probably thought that she'd be able to do it if I was too busy concentrating on mixing cream and wouldn't be able to sidestep her so easily.

Well, I wasn't a cop for nothing, and by the end of that day, Grandma Mazur still hadn't managed to get at my butt. Somehow, though, I thought that it might have been easier to let her do it, because the amount of cream I got on me took three washings to get out. I still smelled like whipped cream and eggs by the time I got home. Luckily, that night, things had gone especially late, and Steph was asleep on the couch when I got back. Not wanting to wake her, I found a blanket and placed it around her. It wasn't an especially cold evening, but I guessed I was feeling especially affectionate.

We'd been seeing less of each other, literally speaking, since I'd started my baking lessons. My early mornings meant we often missed each other during the day. When I worked late, we'd still have sex, but only once or twice in an evening. I usually fell asleep right afterwards.

Stephanie voiced her concern about this over breakfast the Saturday after I'd learned how to whip cream. It had taken place a week after I'd started learning the process, so I knew that I'd be able to make the cake for her the following day. Of course, Steph didn't know this, and all she saw were my coming home tired after working extra hours at work, or exhausted after helping out at her parents. I was looking forward to this whole thing being finished.

"How's my dad doing?" she asked over coffee and donuts.

I momentarily drew a blank, forgetting that I'd told Steph that he'd pulled his back. Not fully remembering what she was talking about but knowing I had to say something, I hedged.

"Better. Almost back to normal." I took a sip of coffee to give myself a moment to think. Fortunately, the haze vanished and I remembered my excuse for visiting her parents so much.

Steph sighed, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Damn it, she was starting to get suspicious. Or maybe I was being paranoid. No, it was definitely the first. Steph's instincts were too good not to notice something was up. At least I'd only be over at her parents a few more times. Tops.

"How much longer will you be going over there?" she queried.

I took a bite of donut as I did the calculations. I was pretty sure that tomorrow would be _the_ day, since Mrs. Plum and I had done two trial runs the Wednesday before. Both times, my cakes had been "acceptable". My whipped cream was "moderate". From her, this was high praise. Still, anything could happen on _the_ day, and I didn't want to make any promises I'd regret.

"Honestly, Cupcake, I think that tomorrow will be the last day, but I'm not positive. He might need me for another week." I gave her hand a squeeze. "It won't be much longer."

"He's been sitting in his chair more than usual. Did you notice that?" she continued. "How's he going to get better if he doesn't do anything?"

"I think you're supposed to rest a little in order to recover from a shoulder sprain."

Her eyes definitely narrowed this time. "I thought Dad hurt his back."

Damn it!

"He did, but last week he pulled his shoulder when he was trying to find the remote," I improvised. "It fell under the couch and your mom asked him to look for it. It was before I arrived to help with the leaky sink."

She seemed mollified. "At least you're getting plenty of my mom's dessert out of it," she laughed. She studied me. "Not that you look it."

I grinned back at her. I'd actually lost ten pounds over the weeks because of all of the running around. Anyone who wanted to pay to join a gym should just take baking lessons with Mrs. Plum for a few months.

"Morellis have good metabolism," I reminded her. "That, and all of the heavy labored breathing we've been doing at night."

Steph took a swat at me, which I graciously accepted.

Mrs. Plum called immediately after we'd finished eating.

"Since you're going to attempt to make the cake for Stephanie tomorrow, I think you should stay later tonight to do one more test run," she informed me. "I'll tell Steph that her father sprained one of his toes and needs the extra help."

"She won't be happy about that," I told Mrs. Plum.

"Do you or do you not want the cake to turn out perfectly?" she shot back.

I held the phone in stunned silence for a minute. Then, I counted to ten.

"All right, Mrs. Plum. I'll let her know."

"I knew you'd do the right thing," Mrs. Plum replied curtly. "Joseph, there's one last thing that has to go into the cake. I'll show you tonight." Then, she hung up.

Great. As if I wasn't feeling worried enough about the whole thing.

I wondered what this mystery ingredient could be. Maybe Maalox? I'd sure need it before the weekend was over.


	5. Chapter 5

I hung up the phone and turned to Steph. "I have to stay late tonight," I told her. "Your dad sprained one of his toes and your mom needs more work done."

Steph just stared at me. "You're kidding."

I slumped down in my chair. "I wish."

"My dad's had maybe two injuries in his life and now he suddenly hurts his back, his shoulder, and sprained a toe in the last six weeks?" she demanded.

"Don't they say bad things come in threes?" I countered, staring at the remainder of my donut.

Stephanie took another deep breath. "Mom's using you for housework. That's what's going on. Oh look, Frank, if you just pretend to be injured, then we'll get good old Joseph Morelli over to fix the place up. We don't need to spend _money_ paying someone. We'll just use our daughter's boyfriend! Well, all right, maybe we can pay him in dessert, but not until we've made him fix and replace everything in this damn house!"

Steph sounded a _little_ like her mother. Not enough to worry me, but the resemblance was there. I straightened in my seat and popped the rest of the donut into my mouth.

"Maybe I can skip tomorrow if I stay extra late tonight," I told her.

Steph turned on me, waving her hands in the air. "You _better_ skip tomorrow! She sees you more than I do."

I pulled Steph into my lap. "You're much cuter, Cupcake."

She made another noise that sounded like "hmph". I stroked her hair. "I'm sure it will be worth it when it's all over."

"Does she help you at all?"

"Kind of," I admitted. "Shows me where everything is and what I need to do."

Stephanie gave me a sideways glance. "You don't think she's got something up her sleeve, do you? Like…" She trailed off. "Well, I'm not sure what. But _something._"

"I think," I told her, wrapping my arms around Steph and kissing her on the neck, "that we should finish breakfast and then we can go back to bed for awhile. And I don't mean to sleep."

Steph slid off my lap and grabbed her coffee, practically swallowing it in one gulp. I put my hand over her plate.

"Slowly," I told her. "Give yourself a chance to taste the food. I'm not going anywhere."

She grinned at me, looking sort of sheepish, and made the rest of her donut last a full thirty seconds.

That night, dinner at the Plums was normal, which meant that the food was good and Grandma Mazur guided the family in a lively discussion about a show she'd watched on TV earlier about the mummification process.

"I kept thinking they'd talk about how the Egyptians preserved the good stuff, like the eyes and the private parts. But they just rushed over that. What do you think, Helen?"

"Crazy bat," Frank practically growled.

Mrs. Plum didn't look much happier to be discussing the mummification process of eyes or private parts. I guessed that talking about preserving eyes was more creepy than gross, but private parts were a topic Grandma Mazur always brought to the table and one that the rest of her family tried to steer her away from.

I caught Steph's eye at several points of the conversation. She looked semi grossed out while trying not to laugh. Mrs. Plum kept eyeing her wine glass, but refrained from taking more than a few sips throughout the conversation. I was impressed, but I suppose that she felt that she had to stay sober if she wanted to be in full form when giving me the baking lesson afterwards.

Frank didn't say much after the subject of mummification died off, and Mrs. Plum kept glancing at her watch. Finally, after second helpings of rice pudding had been served and mostly consumed, she spoke up.

"Mother, were you going to attend the viewing tonight? It's nearly seven."

"Well, I wanted to, but I don't have a ride. Unless you want to take me, Stephanie? Joseph's going to be busy here for awhile learning about the sec—I mean, learning about the inner workings of a clogged up toilet."

I glanced at Stephanie, who nodded wearily. "Sure, Grandma. Who'd you say it was for?"

"Mrs. Barbara Smith-Nelson from across the street. Got herself killed when those electrical people were attempting to cut down a tree that was blocking some of the power lines. I heard that she was walking her dog at the time. The dog ended up fine, but she got hit pretty badly by the tree. It wasn't pretty." She grinned. "I'm hoping it will be an open casket, since the tree got her in the heart as opposed to the face or the head. So long, Helen."

"Have fun, girls. Stephanie, dear, I'll have the leftovers ready for when you return," Mrs. Plum replied. The second they'd left, she turned to Frank. "Frank, can you take the rest of your pudding into the living room? I can get you a beer if you want. It's just that we need the kitchen now."

"Fine," he said, rising from his chair and taking his plate with him. "I'll be watching the game. I'll get my own beer, Helen."

Oh, hell. I'd forgotten that the game was on tonight. It wasn't the world series or anything, but I'd been looking forward to it. Well, maybe if we finished before Steph and Grandma Mazur got back, I'd be able to get the score, at least.

Mrs. Plum shut the kitchen door and turned to me. "I don't tell anyone about the secret ingredient, not even my mother. But you need it or else the cake won't be half as good. Get an apron and wash your hands."

Mrs. Plum kept a few aprons available, but they were all girly. The one I had claimed as "mine" was the least girly of the lot—pale blue with red flowers all over it. No lace or ruffles. Unfortunately, it also reached past my knees.

When I returned, all of the ingredients were assembled, including a large bottle without any labels. I hadn't seen this before.

I nodded at the bottle. "Is that the secret ingredient?" I asked her, attempting to keep my voice down.

"It is." She glanced at the door. "No one knows anything about it, and if you do so much as breathe a word to anyone aside from Stephanie, I will cut both of you off from _all_ dessert for the rest of your lives. Understood?"

It was hard not to smile. I was pretty sure I knew what was in the bottle.

"I promise."

"I use a half a cup of wine in the cake mix. But I _only_ use white wine, since red makes it too sour," Mrs. Plum explained, not looking at me, but rather keeping her eyes on the closed door. "Just before you add the eggs. I've tried it without the wine when I was first working on the recipe, but it never tasted right. I tried adding a little here and there, and decided that a half a cup was the best amount to use. I suspect that most of it gets burned off in the oven, and it's not enough to get anyone even remotely tipsy, but if anyone heard that I was using it, the Burg would be down on me like vultures. I've served the cake to Stephanie and Valerie since they were kids, and Valerie's children eat the cake. So, you can see why it's important that _no one_ finds out."

It took a lot to keep from smiling. If Stephanie were there, she'd have said that the corners of my lips moved, or my eyebrows had raised slightly, or noted some other sign that indicated I was trying not to laugh. Fortunately, Steph wasn't there, and Mrs. Plum didn't know my facial expressions nearly as well as my, I hoped—as I mentally crossed my fingers—soon to be fiancé. She just nodded gravely as she saw me process her words, no doubt taking in the gravity of the situation.

Really, my silence had more to do with the fact that I was trying to keep from laughing. The fact that Mrs. Plum used alcohol in desserts was not exactly a surprise, but it was amusing that she thought it was so important to keep it a secret. I mean, if she only used half of a cup and half of that disappeared in the oven, then each piece contained what? One teaspoon of alcohol? Didn't cough medicine that parents gave kids when they were sick contain more alcohol than that?

But people liked to gossip, and I could understand her fear that word would get out. I could imagine the headlines: Local Burg Housewife Gets Children Drunk by Serving Cake with Beer.

Steph would enjoy the story to no end, and doubtless Grandma Mazur would get a few chuckles out of the story, but Helen Plum would feel as though she could never show her face in public.

I had to keep that last part in the front of my mind to make myself believe that the situation was serious. That I shouldn't laugh in the face of my future mother in law.

"I'm glad you told me," I told her, once I was sure I'd gotten myself under control. "Will you show me how to make the cake with the alcohol?"

"Of course."

If you had told me three weeks ago that the day before baking the cake of all cakes with the most complicated recipe known to man that I'd have to learn a _new_ step, I'd have been tempted to give up then and there. I had the rest of the recipe under control. Not so much that I could make the cake in my sleep, but I could make it without much assistance. Mrs. Plum had been correct in comparing it to playing the piano. Or had it been Grandma Mazur who'd said that? No, it had been Grandma Mazur, and then Mrs. Plum had countered it by claiming that her method of baking was more difficult than playing the piano. Well, I'd never taken piano lessons, but since lots of kids did, it had to be easier than Mrs. Plum's method of baking.

Truthfully, though, I thought of baking more like memorizing a speech or a set of rules I'd need to know for my job. If I started with little pieces and practiced enough, eventually it would stick in my brain. Sure, actually _making_ the cake was a lot more difficult than listing the steps to making the cake, but the same thing applied.

To my surprise, though, adding the alcohol didn't really throw everything off balance. I'd probably reflect later that there was a spare ten seconds in the recipe instructions that gave the baker the ideal amount of time to add the alcohol and mix it in correctly. Silly me—I'd been using those ten seconds to figure out what to do next and make sure I had every ingredient in order. The pressure was more intense now, but it fit together.

Mrs. Plum tested the first cake with her trusty toothpick and declared that it was acceptable, but I needed to try a few more times. I glanced at the clock.

"What if Steph and your mother come back while we're working?" I asked.

"They won't," she informed me. "I gave my mother strict instructions to keep herself and Stephanie out of my house until 11:30. I also hired a friend to puncture one of the tires in Stephanie's car while they were at the viewing to slow them down."

I just stared at Mrs. Plum in amazement. "You did _what_?"

She straightened up. "This is _important_, Joseph! Now, are you going to start the second cake, or dilly dally?"

I apologized and began working on the second cake.

It wasn't until I'd taken out the fifth cake—and felt like I was going to pass out from exhaustion—that Mrs. Plum thought I'd done a good enough job to stop baking cakes. The first four ended up in the trash can, but the fifth remained on the stove, almost looking triumphant and proud at being the only cake to survive. I shook my head. I must be going crazy if I thought a cake could look smug.

Mrs. Plum turned to me. "I'm concerned that you won't be able to have everything ready if you come back tomorrow afternoon."

Was she suggesting using this cake? Not having to come back tomorrow to create a fresh cake seemed too good to be true…

"I could take this cake home and hide it," I offered. "We'll be eating it right after dinner."

Mrs. Plum just looked at me as though I'd suggested using acid instead of sugar.

"Never mind," I muttered. "I wasn't thinking."

"Clearly."

There was a long pause, and then she said, "Come back at 12:00. You may have to serve dinner at 7, but if you get the cake correct on the second or third time, you'll be able to leave here by 4."

"Sounds like a good idea."

Honestly, at this point, I was willing to promise anything just to get out of there. I heard the door to the house open and nearly jumped out of my skin. Mrs. Plum grabbed a can of air freshener, sprayed it liberally at me, and then literally pushed me out of the kitchen. There was no time to change my clothes, so I just had to hope that Steph wouldn't notice that I smelled like a combination of cake and pine needles. I guessed that I could always blame the cake smell on the earlier dinner and dessert.

"I can't believe they gave us another tire puncture," she was saying.

"You think they were gang members?" asked Grandma Mazur. "I've always wanted to meet a real gang."

I walked the few steps to Steph's side and pulled her into a hug. "How was the viewing?"

She relaxed against me. "The viewing was okay, but when Grandma and I returned to the Buick, we found out that someone had drained the air from one of the tires. It took an hour to get a service to come out there. Then, we stopped at McDonalds for a snack, and someone actually _slashed_ the tire."

"It was the same one!" Grandma Mazur chirped. "Someone's out to get Steph."

"Probably one of Boontz's friends," she told me confidentially.

"Are you all right?" I asked her, pulling her closer.

"I'm exhausted, but I'm all right." Steph smiled at me. "Not too tired for tonight."

Neither was I. Steph picked up her leftovers and we bid her family goodbye. Ten minutes later, we'd kicked Bob out of the bedroom and locked the door. An hour after that, Steph was sound asleep, and I was nearly there. I woke up at 8—late for me—and saw that Steph was still sleeping. I took a few minutes to watch her sleep before leaving the bedroom. Stephanie always looked so peaceful in her sleep that I hated to wake her. I sometimes did if I felt like I needed morning sex really badly, but she usually said no and even threw pillows at me. This morning, I was happy to let her sleep in, and pulled the covers over her chin before planting a kiss on her forehead. She stirred slightly, but didn't wake up. I smoothed back her hair before heading downstairs to feed myself and Bob. Afterwards, I drove to the store to collect some things for our dinner, and then called her mother to check in after I finished putting away the groceries.

"Where _are_ you, Joseph?" she practically yelled.

"Mrs. Plum, it's only 9:30. You said I should arrive at noon."

"Did I say twelve?" she gasped. "You must have misheard me. That's much too late. What if there's a problem with the cake?"

"I'll be right over," I promised.

As a rule, I'm not very religious. I almost never go to Mass—on Sundays or any other day of the year—and I might pray seriously once a month. I believe in God, but I don't think things like church attendance or how many times in a day (I suppose in my case, it would be in a year) you talk to Him. Being a cop, I've seen some pretty horrible people who have done incredibly nasty things to innocent people. Things like rape, drug dealers, homicide, serial killers, torturers, fatal shootings and stabbings. I tend to be lenient about handing out speeding tickets, but if you mess with another person in one of the ways I listed above, I'll try to ensure the maximum sentence possible. I think it's the people who rape kids and kill expectant mothers who need to worry about hell. Not the people who live a good life but have lots of premarital sex and don't always attend church. I mean, I'm not saying that God doesn't know about everything that goes on, but I don't think He's all that picky when it comes down to it. I think that, when it comes down to it, God cares about whether you have a good heart. Even without regular church attendance, I knew that Steph and I qualified.

That being said, I figured it couldn't hurt to send up a prayer for everything to go smoothly. I mean, since God knows about everything that goes on, it can't hurt to ask Him to make my cake turn out good. Or, at least, not explode in the oven.

Not that this ever happened, but if it did, it would probably be on the day I was going to propose.

I'd spent the last few nights thinking about how I wanted to incorporate the proposal into the cake. I couldn't write "Will you marry me?" in whipped cream or icing. My initial plan had been to put the ring box on one of the clouds of whipped cream, and be kneeling with the ring in my hand next to the cake. Now, though, that seemed sort of cheesy.

I _could_ ask Mrs. Plum to help me make pineapple upside down cupcakes with the writing carved out, or something like that, but it would be too late to learn how to do this. She'd probably keep me in her baking classes for another month. No, I'd have to do this without her help.

Since Steph and I had first really connected at the Tasty Pastry, I decided to stop there on my way back and purchase four cupcakes to add on top of the cake. I'd ask the person at the counter to write "will you marry me?" with one word on each cupcake. I'd line them up across the cake in a line so it would be really obvious.

Once I had this idea, I decided that I really liked it. It was the perfect way to call attention to our "first time", and how we'd grown since then. I was no longer the irresponsible teen who stole kisses (and more) from an impressionable teenage Stephanie Plum, but a responsible and loving man who was ready to commit to spending the rest of my life with her. I'd grown up. If the past twelve years hadn't proved that, my spending the past six weeks in baking classes with my (I hoped) future mother in law to learn how to make Stephanie's favorite dessert had to say something about my feelings and resolve to be a great husband.

Grandma Mazur practically hauled me into the house before I'd rung the bell. She had a knife in hand, and I was afraid she was going to injure one—or both—of us.

"Hurry up, you slowpoke!" she reprimanded me as she dragged me by the arm into the kitchen. "We haven't got much time."

Six weeks ago, I would have been tempted to make a comment about a few minutes not making much of a difference one way or another. Now, I knew better.

The first cake turned out terribly. It was my worse cake yet. I was so nervous that I put everything in too early or too late. Only by a few seconds, but as I learned from Mrs. Plum, _every_ second counts. The second cake was too dry. In the third cake, the pineapple slices kept sticking to the bottom of the pan. Mrs. Plum glared at the offending slices of pineapple. By the time I'd discovered that my fourth cake was too lumpy, she got to her knees and began praying.

"This is a disaster!" she wailed. "Joseph, you must try harder or you'll be serving Stephanie dinner at midnight!"

"Could be romantic," Grandma Mazur piped up. "I heard they eat dinner late in Europe."

"We're _not_ living in Europe, _Mother_," hissed Mrs. Plum, and she waved an identical knife to the one Grandma Mazur had threatened me with at _her_.

Grandma Mazur jumped back, brandishing her knife. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Helen. I was just saying."

"Well, don't! And put that knife down before you hurt yourself!" she growled. Literally. She turned to me, and I backed away a few feet. "Try again, Joseph, and do _not_ disappoint me. Think of Stephanie."

I took a deep breath and tried again. This time, it worked. Perfectly. What could I say? Maybe the fifth time was the charm with me?

Mrs. Plum took the cake and put it in a box which she tied up with enough string to make a family of cats happy for a month. She picked it up reverently and handed it to me.

"Guard this with your life," she warned me. "And good luck. I expect to receive a call with every last detail."

"I could spy on them," Grandma Mazur offered.

"Don't you dare," growled Mrs. Plum. "This is supposed to be a romantic night for the two of them. Besides, you'd stick out of Joseph's bushes like a sore thumb."

Grandma Mazur huffed. "It was just a suggestion."

I put the cake down and gave Mrs. Plum a hug. "Thank you for _everything_," I told her, and meant it.

She returned the hug and patted me on the head. "I'm sure you and Stephanie will be very happy. I haven't always been fond of you, Joseph, but you've matured a lot over the years, and you'll be a fine husband. Just look at all of the progress you've made over the past month and a half! I can see that you love Stephanie and will be a good husband to her."

Frank came into the kitchen. "Are you all finally finished baking? It's making me hungry."

"Just about, Frank," Mrs. Plum replied. "Joe's about to take the cake over to Stephanie. He's going to propose tonight!"

"About time," Frank said, eyeing me. "You be good to my daughter, Morelli."

"Yes, sir."

Frank grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and then left the room.

"And if she says no, there's plenty of other fish out there," Grandma Mazur added brightly. "Take me, for instance. I may be in my 70's, but that's not all that old anymore and, besides, people tell me that I don't look my age at all. Besides, you Morelli men tend to die young, and I've got at least thirty good years left before any health problems kick in. If things don't work out with Steph, you and me could have a good thirty years together." She studied me carefully. "Maybe twenty in your case."

Mrs. Plum rolled her eyes and took a swig from the bottle of alcohol. "You will _not_ marry my future son in law."

"Not if Steph gets him first," Grandma Mazur agreed. She winked at me. "Think about it."

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. Of all of the outrageous things I'd heard in the past six weeks, Grandma Mazur proposing marriage had to top them all. In the back of my mind, I wondered if Grandma Mazur _could_ outlast a younger man. She'd outlived her first husband, after all.

I'd have a lot of fun telling Steph about everything once I was able to confess.

On the way home, I stopped at Tasty Pastry.

"Can you write stuff on cupcakes?" I asked the elderly woman at the counter.

"Yes, as long as you don't want _too_ much written on each cupcake," she replied with a smile. "Anything you had in mind?"

I scanned the selection for a minute. "I'd like to buy four vanilla cupcakes with the flowers on the sides. In the middle of each one, could you write the words 'will you marry me?' "

"One word per cupcake?"

"Yes, please."

"Do you want a question mark after the 'me'?"

"Yeah. Thanks. And could you put them in a box?"

Five minutes later I arrived home with the cupcakes and the pineapple upside down cake. It was a little after four. Steph's car was not in the driveway, so I had a little time. Except, what if she and Lula or Mary Lou had decided to go out for dinner? There was no note, but Steph didn't _always_ leave a note. I decided to call her cell.

She answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, Cupcake. What are you up to?"

"Just got my body receipt from Boontz," she explained. "Eddie Gazarra said hi."

"That's great, Steph. We should celebrate," I told her with a grin.

I could almost see her rolling her eyes. "We will, tonight. Wasn't today your last manual labor session with my mom?"

"It was," I confirmed. "We'll have lots to celebrate tonight."

She laughed. "Want me to pick up dinner? I could stop at Pinos for meatball subs."

"I went grocery shopping earlier. Thought we could switch it up and eat in the dining room for a change. You know, I don't think I used that room once since I moved into the house."

"Um…sure. Sounds good." There was a pause and I imagined that she was checking the time on her cell phone. "Want me to come home early and help set things up? I was going to be home in an hour…"

"An hour's perfect. I'll see you then. Love you," I added.

"Love you too," she told me, and we disconnected.

I wasn't sure if an hour would be enough time to set everything up and cook the meal, so I figured that I better get started. Steph wouldn't mind waiting if the steaks weren't finished as soon as she walked in. I'd change into something nice and persuade her to do the same…

I set up some music from the living room and began to set the table. I'd picked up a couple of candles at the market earlier, remembering seeing my aunt Rose's nice candlesticks a few months back. I made the salad and put the potatoes into the oven before heading upstairs to shower and change. I began humming as I put on a nice, button down shirt and a pair of khakis. I considered putting on a tie for about five seconds before discarding the idea completely. I brushed my teeth and hair and checked myself in the mirror for stray dog hairs or a missed cowlick. After deciding I looked more than presentable, I headed downstairs to check on the potatoes and adjust the volume on the music. I didn't want to start the steaks until Steph had arrived, but I could prepare the vegetable toppings for them, so I went to work with that.

Stephanie arrived just as I finished sizzling the veggies, looking tired but happy. As soon as she smelled the food, she perked up considerably.

"Mmm," she said, inhaling deeply and giving me a hug.

I laughed and squeezed back. "That about me or the food?" I teased.

"Both." She stood back and examined me. "You look especially sexy."

I found a stray curl and twirled it around my finger. "Why don't you shower and put on something sexy? I haven't started the steaks yet."

Steph laughed. "Like the black dress?"

My eyes probably grew dark at that point. "Maybe the one you just bought? If you wore the black one, we'd have to postpone dinner for a few hours."

Another laugh. "I'll be ready soon."

I kissed Steph on the mouth. "Take your time, Cupcake."

Twenty five minutes later, I heard her come down the stairs and transferred the steaks from the oven to our plates. Seconds later, Steph appeared at the foot of the stairs, wearing the blue flowered dress and a small amount of makeup. Her hair was loose in curls around her shoulders, and even though we were inside, she was wearing the matching blue shoes she'd bought a few days later. I wasn't positive, but I was fairly certain that she was wearing the matching earrings that she'd bought with the dress.

I just stared at her for a minute, admiring the effect. Just for minute, though. I had Steph in my arms and in a long kiss before she'd entered the dining room. She ruffled my hair.

"Food first, then sex."

"You're such a tease."

She spun around in the dress and then looked at the dining room. "Wow, this looks incredible."

I smiled and held out a chair for her. "I figured we both had something to celebrate."

Steph sat down and spread out her skirt. "I'm so glad you're finished with the work at my mom's house. You've been so tired lately."

I ruffled her hair. "Tell me about it."

Stephanie noticed the absence of the hairy beast from the setting. "Where's Bob?"

"Outside in the back yard. With his food bowl, his water, and plenty of treats. Tonight's just about us."

Steph leaned over and kissed me. "Sounds romantic."

We dug into the food. I'd decided to use the same meal I'd cooked when I first made her dinner. Steak with vegetables and baked potatoes on the side. Salad as a side dish. Wine. I even used the same brand I'd used when I'd first cooked for her. Steph probably wouldn't notice, but I thought it made a nice touch.

She cleared her plate and took seconds, but I barely managed to eat half of what I gave myself. Some of it was nerves. I was afraid that I might have to excuse myself to throw up. An equal part of it was me just enjoying the setting, watching Steph enjoy the meal. One of the things I loved about her was that she wasn't one of those women who took two tiny bites of something and declared that she was full. Stephanie really enjoyed her food. It was especially satisfying to observe her when I'd made the meal. Steph must have noticed that I didn't seem entirely myself, because she kept glancing at me and looking at the large amount of food on my plate. I usually pack away at least twice as much food as she does.

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked, leaning over to feel my forehead. "You don't feel warm."

I tried to smile. "It's nothing. I'm just tired." Then, more to tease her than anything else, I added, "We could skip dessert if you're full."

Steph rolled her eyes at me. "I don't think so, Morelli."

I smiled at her and gave her another long kiss on the mouth. "Be right back, then." I took our plates to the kitchen, then headed to the pantry. I must have left the door open, because I felt her behind me and realized that Steph had followed me. Good thing I hadn't opened the cake, yet. I stood with my back against the box.

"Joe?"

Damn it! She kept shifting her position, obviously trying to look around me to see the dessert. I held out my arms, partly to give her a hug, but also to hide the view from sight.

I forced a smile as we separated. "I put the dessert here for safe keeping. Didn't want to tempt you before we ate. I'll be out in a minute."

Stephanie crossed her arms over her chest, but I could tell that she was more amused than annoyed. "And you say I'm the tease?"

I pointed my finger towards the dining room. "I'll be there in a minute."

Stephanie gave me another exasperated look as she walked back towards the kitchen. I sighed, hastily assembled the cupcakes on the cake, and gave it one last look. One of the cupcakes was a little off center, so I moved it a quarter of an inch. Much better.

Cripes, I was becoming as bad as Steph's mom.

Suddenly, I remembered that the ring was still with the cooking supplies, and left the cake in the pantry while I went out to retrieve it. That finished, I sighed with relief and headed to the kitchen with the cake in hand. I carried it with supreme caution, as if it was worth its weight in gold. I congratulated myself for kicking Bob out of the house for the night.

Steph was sitting at the table when I returned. She brightened when she saw the cake, but I don't think she noticed the cupcakes. Good thing, because I wanted to give a small explanation before the big one.

"Steph," I began. "For the past six weeks, I wasn't helping your mom with home repair stuff."

"Wait—you lied to me?"

I held up a hand. "Only kind of. Will you let me explain?"

Steph just raised an eyebrow at me. I knew this meant, "You better."

"Okay, so I know how much you love your mom's pineapple upside down cake," I began again.

"Right…"

"So, I asked your mom to teach me how to make it. That's why I was at your house so much over the last six weeks. Because I _love_ you, Cupcake. And…"

"Wait," Steph cut me off. Her mouth was slowly forming a smile. "Okay, I forgive you for lying, but why didn't you just tell me? That's sweet."

"There's more. Take a close look at the cake, Cupcake." I took a deep breath, and stepped aside.

She gave it a cursory glance and smiled, but her lack of any real reaction indicated that she hadn't seen the cupcakes. Or, to be more specific, she hadn't seen what was _written_ on the cupcakes.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" she asked, still not getting it. "I'd have teased you to no end, but that's sweet. _Really_ sweet."

Would she just _look_ at the cupcakes already?!

"Cupcake, look at the _cupcakes_ closely."

She did, and then her eyes went wide. "Is this for real?"

I was grinning, really grinning. My mouth was starting to hurt from smiling so much. "I'm dead serious, Steph. I've loved you ever since we were teens, but I don't think I really began to notice until I saw you at the Tasty Pastry." I gathered her into my arms and held her close. I stared into her beautiful eyes, which were now somewhat teary. She knew what was coming next. "You've made my life complete, Steph. I love you so much. You're awesome, smart, sexy, and just plain incredible." I took a deep breath. "So, Cupcake, what do you say? Will you marry me?"

Then, she started shrieking. I didn't understand all of it, but I could definitely make out the words "can't believe it!" and "you clod!"

Me, a clod?

Then, I remembered that Steph had called me that during the peanut butter fight.

She was grinning, so I guess "clod" had taken on a new meaning. A good one.

"Well, Cupcake? Will you?" I pressed, and I was so flustered I only just remembered that I still had the ring in the pocket of my jeans. I took it out and held it awkwardly in front of her. My hands were shaking so badly it was a wonder I didn't drop the ring on the floor.

She just stared at me open mouthed, eyes going from the cake to the ring to me, and then back to the cake. I laughed, and took her hand.

"Steph?" I asked again, gently. She nodded, at first just a little and then vigorously. I carefully placed the ring on her finger. "So you'll be _my_ Mrs. Morelli?"

"Yes," she whispered, and then hugged me so tightly she practically knocked the air out of me. "Hell, yeah!"

I expected Steph to let go of me then, but she held on for her life. She was crying and laughing, and I wanted to do the same—okay, maybe not the crying—but lack of air was becoming a problem.

"Steph? I can't breathe!" I managed to gasp.

Reluctantly, she let go of me. "Guess you need air." Then, she pulled me into another hug that was still pretty fierce, but allowed me to take in oxygen. I wrapped my arms around her and smiled.

"Love you, Cupcake."

"Love you too, Joe."

We kissed for a _long_ time. Then, I pulled Steph into my lap as I sat down on the chair opposite from the cake.

"Are we going to eat this?" I asked her. She looked at me as though I was crazy. "Just checking."

I cut a thick slice and was about to hand it to her when inspiration struck. I took a forkful of it and fed it to her. Now, I have to say that this is _not_ easy to do with Steph sitting on my lap, but definitely more fun than it would have been if she'd been sitting across from me.

She took a big bite, chewed for awhile, closed her eyes and sighed. "Mmmm." Steph took the fork from me, speared a bite directly from the cake, and offered me a bite. Even though I'd had enough pineapple upside down cake to last a lifetime, I accepted.

It _was_ pretty good, but I was so happy that it could have tasted like sandpaper and I wouldn't have cared.

Maybe we'd have it at our wedding after all.

But only if Mrs. Plum made it. It had taken six weeks to be able to make a cake good enough to serve to Steph. It would probably take six years before she thought I'd be able to make a cake good enough for a wedding reception.

Besides, I liked the idea of only making the cake for Stephanie. Okay, maybe our future kids as well. This cake would only be the first in a long series of cakes I'd end up making for my future wife. Birthday cakes, make up fight cakes, arrival of kids cakes, anniversary cakes, and just because I felt like it cakes.

This one would just be the first of many to celebrate a lifetime of happy Morelli moments.

Steph and I alternated feeding each other cake for awhile, and then went upstairs—cake in Steph's arms—to _really_ celebrate our engagement.

As we started to head upstairs, leaving the dirty dishes for another day, I saw the faces of Grandma Mazur and Mrs. Plum peaking out from the bushes. Grandma Mazur was wearing a wide grin, and Mrs. Plum was trying to appear cross, but I could see a smile trying to emerge from her face. I tapped Steph on the arm.

"You better let her know you said yes," I told her, "because she was already volunteering to take your place."

Steph rolled her eyes and gave a thumbs up to Grandma Mazur. "No way, Morelli. You are _all _mine."

With that, we headed up the stairs to our bedroom, ready for a night long, Morelli style, pineapple upside down cake celebration.

**The End**


End file.
